I 


THE 


■laiaMatiMaaB 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 


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BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

VILLA  RUBEIN,  and  Other  Stories 
THE  ISLAND  PHARISEES 
THE  MAN  OF  PROPERTY 
THE  COUNTRY  HOUSE 
FRATERNITY 
THE  PATRICIAN 
THE  DARK  FLOWER 


A  COMMENTARY 

A  MOTLEY 

THE  INN  OF  TRANQUILLITY 


PLAYS  :  FIRST  SERIES 

and  Separately 

THE  SILVER  BOX 

JOY 

STRIFE 

PLAYS  :  SECOND  SERIES 

and  Separately 

THE  ELDEST  SON 
THE  LITTLE  DREAM 
JUSTICE 
THE  PIGEON 


MOODS.  SONGS,  AND  DOGGERELS 


i 

THE   DARK  FLOWER 


THE  DARK  FLOWER 


BY 

JOHN   GALSWORTHY 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 

1913 


Copyright,  1913,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  October,  1913 


"Take  the  flower  from  my  breast,  I  pray  thee, 
Take  the  flower  too  from  out  my  tresses; 
And  then  go  hence,  for  see,  the  night  is  fair. 
The  stars  rejoice  to  watch  thee  on  thy  way." 

— From  "The  Bard  of  the  Dimbovitza." 


PART  I 
SPRING 


THE  DARK  FLOWER 


He  walked  along  Holywell  that  afternoon  of  early- 
June  with  his  short  gown  drooping  down  his  arms, 
and  no  cap  on  his  thick  dark  hair.  A  youth  of  mid- 
dle height,  and  built  as  if  he  had  come  of  two  very 
different  strains,  one  sturdy,  the  other  wiry  and 
light.  His  face,  too,  was  a  curious  blend,  for,  though 
it  was  strongly  formed,  its  expression  was  rather 
soft  and  moody.  His  eyes— dark  grey,  with  a  good 
deal  of  light  in  them,  and  very  black  lashes — had  a 
way  of  looking  beyond  what  they  saw,  so  that  he 
did  not  seem  always  to  be  quite  present;  but  his 
smile  was  exceedingly  swift,  uncovering  teeth  as 
white  as  a  negro's,  and  giving  his  face  a  peculiar 
eagerness.  People  stared  at  him  a  little  as  he  passed 
— since  in  eighteen  hundred  and  eighty  he  was  before 
his  time  in  not  wearing  a  cap.  Women  especially 
were  interested;  they  perceived  that  he  took  no 
notice  of  them,  seeming  rather  to  be  looking  into 
distance,  and  making  combinations  in  his  soul. 

Did  he  know  of  what  he  was  thinking — did  he 
ever  know  quite  definitely  at  that  time  of  his  life, 
when  things,  especially  those  beyond  the  immediate 


4  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

horizon,  were  so  curious  and  interesting? — the  things 
he  was  going  to  see  and  do  when  he  had  got  through 
Oxford,  where  everybody  was  'awfully  decent'  to 
him  and  'all  right'  of  course,  but  not  so  very  inter- 
esting. 

He  was  on  his  way  to  his  tutor's  to  read  an  essay 
on  OHver  Cromwell;  and  under  the  old  wall,  which 
had  once  hedged  in  the  town,  he  took  out  of  his 
pocket  a  beast.  It  was  a  small  tortoise,  and,  with 
an  extreme  absorption,  he  watched  it  move  its 
little  inquiring  head,  feeling  it  all  the  time  with  his 
short,  broad  fingers,  as  though  to  discover  exactly 
how  it  was  made.  It  was  mighty  hard  in  the  back ! 
No  wonder  poor  old  vEschylus  felt  a  bit  sick  when  it 
fell  on  his  head!  The  ancients  used  it  to  stand  the 
world  on — a  pagoda  world,  perhaps,  of  men  and 
beasts  and  trees,  like  that  carving  on  his  guardian's 
Chinese  cabinet.  The  Chinese  made  jolly  beasts 
and  trees,  as  if  they  believed  in  everything  having  a 
soul,  and  not  only  being  just  fit  for  people  to  eat  or 
drive  or  make  houses  of.  If  only  the  Art  School 
would  let  him  model  things  'on  his  own,'  instead  of 
copying  and  copying — it  was  just  as  if  they  imagined 
it  would  be  dangerous  to  let  you  think  out  anything 
for  yourself! 

He  held  the  tortoise  to  his  waistcoat,  and  let  it 
crawl,  till,  noticing  that  it  was  gnawing  the  corner 
of  his  essay,  he  put  it  back  into  his  pocket.  What 
would  his  tutor  do  if  he  were  to  know  it  was  there? 
— cock  his  head  a  httle  to  one  side,  and  say:  "Axh! 
there  are  things,  Lennan,  not  dreamed  of  in  my 


SPRING  5 

philosophy!"  Yes,  there  were  a  good  many  not 
dreamed  of  by  'old  Stormer,'  who  seemed  so  awfully 
afraid  of  anything  that  wasn't  usual;  who  seemed 
always  laughing  at  you,  for  fear  that  you  should 
laugh  at  him.  There  were  lots  of  people  in  Oxford 
like  that.  It  was  stupid.  You  couldn't  do  anything 
decent  if  you  were  afraid  of  being  laughed  at !  Mrs. 
Stormer  wasn't  like  that;  she  did  things  because — 
they  came  into  her  head.  But  then,  of  course,  she 
was  Austrian,  not  English,  and  ever  so  much  yoimger 
than  old  Stormer. 

And  having  reached  the  door  of  his  tutor's  house, 
he  rang  the  bell.  .  .  . 


II 


When  Anna  Stormer  came  into  the  study  she 
found  her  husband  standing  at  the  window  with  his 
head  a  httle  on  one  side — a  tall,  long-legged  figure 
in  clothes  of  a  pleasant  tweed,  and  wearing  a  low 
turn-over  collar  (not  common  in  those  days)  and  a 
blue  silk  tie,  which  she  had  knitted,  strung  through 
a  ring.  He  was  humming  and  gently  tapping  the 
window-pane  with  his  well-kept  finger-nails.  Though 
celebrated  for  the  amount  of  work  he  got  through, 
she  never  caught  him  doing  any  in  this  house  of 
theirs,  chosen  because  it  was  more  than  half  a  mile 
away  from  the  College  which  held  the  'dear  young 
clowns,'  as  he  called  them,  of  whom  he  was  tutor. 

He  did  not  turn — it  was  not,  of  course,  his  habit 
to  notice  what  was  not  absolutely  necessary — but 


6  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

she  felt  that  he  was  aware  of  her.  She  came  to  the 
window  seat  and  sat  down.  He  looked  round  at 
that,  and  said:  "Ah!" 

It  was  a  murmur  almost  of  admiration,  not  usual 
from  him,  since,  with  the  exception  of  certain  por- 
tions of  the  classics,  it  was  hardly  his  custom  to  ad- 
mire. But  she  knew  that  she  was  looking  her  best 
sitting  there,  her  really  beautiful  figure  poised,  the 
sun  shining  on  her  brown  hair,  and  brightening  her 
deep-set,  ice-green  eyes  under  their  black  lashes. 
It  was  sometimes  a  great  comfort  to  her  that  she 
remained  so  good-looking.  It  would  have  been  an 
added  vexation  indeed  to  have  felt  that  she  ruffled 
her  husband's  fastidiousness.  Even  so,  her  cheek- 
bones were  too  high  for  his  taste,  symbols  of  that 
something  in  her  character  which  did  not  go  with 
his — the  dash  of  desperation,  of  vividness,  that  lack 
of  a  certain  Enghsh  smoothness,  which  always  an- 
noyed him. 

"Harold!" — she  would  never  quite  flatten  her  r's 
— "I  want  to  go  to  the  mountains  this  year." 

The  mountains!  She  had  not  seen  them  since 
that  season  at  San  Martino  di  Castrozza  twelve  years 
ago,  which  had  ended  in  her  marrying  him. 

"Nostalgia!" 

"I  don't  know  what  that  means — I  am  homesick. 
Can  we  go?" 

"If  you  like — why  not?  But  no  leading  up  the 
Cimone  della  Pala  for  me  .^" 

She  knew  what  he  meant  by  that.  No  romance. 
How  splendidly  he  had  led  that  day!    She  had  al- 


SPRING  7 

most  worshipped  him.  What  bHndness !  What  dis- 
tortion !  Was  it  really  the  same  man  standing  there 
with  those  bright,  doubting  eyes,  with  grey  already 
in  his  hair?  Yes,  romance  was  over!  And  she  sat 
silent,  looking  out  into  the  street — that  Httle  old 
street  into  which  she  looked  day  and  night.  A  figure 
passed  out  there,  came  to  the  door,  and  rang. 

She  said  softly:   "Here  is  Mark  Lennan!" 

She  felt  her  husband's  eyes  rest  on  her  just  for  a 
moment,  knew  that  he  had  turned,  heard  him  mur- 
mur: "Ah,  the  angel  clown!"  And,  quite  still,  she 
waited  for  the  door  to  open.  There  was  the  boy, 
with  his  blessed  dark  head,  and  his  shy,  gentle  grav- 
ity, and  his  essay  in  his  hand. 

"Well,  Lennan,  and  how's  old  Noll?  Hypocrite 
of  genius,  eh?    Draw  up;  let's  get  him  over!" 

Motionless,  from  her  seat  at  the  window,  she 
watched  those  two  figures  at  the  table — the  boy 
reading  in  his  queer,  velvety  bass  voice;  her  hus- 
band leaning  back  with  the  tips  of  his  fingers  pressed 
together,  his  head  a  little  on  one  side,  and  that  faint, 
satiric  smile  which  never  reached  his  eyes.  Yes,  he 
was  dozing,  falling  asleep;  and  the  boy,  not  seeing, 
was  going  on.  Then  he  came  to  the  end  and  glanced 
up.  What  eyes  he  had!  Other  boys  would  have 
laughed;  but  he  looked  almost  sorry.  She  heard  him 
murmur:  "I'm  awfully  sorry,  sir." 

"Ah,  Lennan,  you  caught  me!  Fact  is,  term's 
fagged  me  out.  We're  going  to  the  mountains. 
Ever  been  to  the  mountains?  What — never!  You 
should  come  with  us,  eh?    What  do  you  say,  Anna? 


8  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

Don't  you  think  this  young  man  ought  to  come  with 
us?" 

She  got  up,  and  stood  staring  at  them  both.  Had 
she  heard  aright? 

Then  she  answered — very  gravely: 

"Yes;  I  think  he  ought."  |; 

"Good;  we'll  get  him  to  lead  up  the  Cimone  della 
Pala!" 


Ill 


When  the  boy  had  said  good-bye,  and  she  had 
watched  him  out  into  the  street,  Anna  stood  for  a 
moment  in  the  streak  of  sunUght  that  came  in 
through  the  open  door,  her  hands  pressed  to  cheeks 
w^hich  were  flaming.  Then  she  shut  the  door  and 
leaned  her  forehead  against  the  window-pane,  seeing 
nothing.  Her  heart  beat  very  fast;  she  was  going 
over  and  over  again  the  scene  just  passed  through. 
This  meant  so  much  more  than  it  had  seemed  to 
mean.  ,  .  . 

Though  she  always  had  Eeimweh,  and  especially 
at  the  end  of  the  summer  term,  this  year  it  had  been 
a  different  feeling  altogether  that  made  her  say  to 
her  husband:  "I  want  to  go  to  the  mountains!" 

For  twelve  years  she  had  longed  for  the  moun- 
tains every  summer,  but  had  not  pleaded  for  them; 
this  year  she  had  pleaded,  but  she  did  not  long  for 
them.  It  was  because  she  had  suddenly  realized  the 
strange  fact  that  she  did  not  want  to  leave  England, 
and  the  reason  for  it,  that  she  had  come  and  begged 


SPRING  9 

to  go.  Yet  why,  when  it  was  just  to  get  away  from 
thought  of  this  boy,  had  she  said:  "Yes,  I  think  he 
ought  to  come!"  Ah!  but  life  for  her  was  always  a 
strange  pull  between  the  conscientious  and  the  des- 
perate; a  queer,  vivid,  aching  business!  How  long 
was  it  now  since  that  day  when  he  first  came  to 
lunch,  silent  and  shy,  and  suddenly  smiling  as  if 
he  were  all  Hghted  up  within — the  day  when  she 
had  said  to  her  husband  afterwards:  "Ah,  he's  an 
angel!"  Not  yet  a  year — the  beginning  of  last 
October  term,  in  fact.  He  was  different  from  all  the 
other  boys;  not  that  he  was  a  prodigy  with  untidy 
hair,  ill-fitting  clothes,  and  a   clever   tongue;  but 

because  of  something — something Ah!  well — 

different;  because  he  was — he;  because  she  longed 
to  take  his  head  between  her  hands  and  kiss  it. 
She  remembered  so  well  the  day  that  longing  first 
came  to  her.  She  was  giving  him  tea,  it  was  quite 
early  in  the  Easter  term;  he  was  stroking  her  cat,  who 
always  went  to  him,  and  telling  her  that  he  meant 
to  be  a  sculptor,  but  that  his  guardian  objected,  so 
that,  of  course,  he  could  not  start  till  he  was  of  age. 
The  lamp  on  the  table  had  a  rose-coloured  shade; 
he  had  been  rowing — a  very  cold  day — and  his  face 
was  glowing;  generally  it  was  rather  pale.  And 
suddenly  he  smiled,  and  said:  "It's  rotten  waiting 
for  things,  isn't  it?"  It  was  then  she  had  almost 
stretched  out  her  hands  to  draw  his  forehead  to  her 
hps.  She  had  thought  then  that  she  wanted  to  kiss 
him,  because  it  would  have  been  so  nice  to  be  his 
mother — she  might  just  have  been  his  mother,  if  she 


lO  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

had  married  at  sixteen.  But  she  had  long  known 
now  that  she  wanted  to  kiss,  not  his  forehead,  but 
his  lips.  He  was  there  in  her  Ufe — a  fire  in  a  cold 
and  unaired  house;  it  had  even  become  hard  to  un- 
derstand that  she  could  have  gone  on  all  these  years 
without  him.  She  had  missed  him  so  those  six  weeks 
of  the  Easter  vacation,  she  had  revelled  so  in  his 
three  queer  little  letters,  half-shy,  half-confidential; 
kissed  them,  and  worn  them  in  her  dress !  And  in 
return  had  written  him  long,  perfectly  correct  epistles 
in  her  still  rather  quaint  English.  She  had  never 
let  him  guess  her  feelings;  the  idea  that  he  might 
shocked  her  inexpressibly.  When  the  summer  term 
began,  Hfe  seemed  to  be  all  made  up  of  thoughts  of 
him.  If,  ten  years  ago,  her  baby  had  lived,  if  its 
cruel  death — after  her  agony — ^had  not  killed  for 
good  her  wish  to  have  another;  if  for  years  now 
she  had  not  been  living  with  the  knowledge  that 
she  had  no  warmth  to  expect,  and  that  love  was 
all  over  for  her;  if  life  in  the  most  beautiful  of  all 
old  cities  had  been  able  to  grip  her — there  would 
have  been  forces  to  check  this  feeling.  But  there 
was  nothing  in  the  world  to  divert  the  current. 
And  she  was  so  brimful  of  life,  so  conscious  of 
vitality  running  to  sheer  waste.  Sometimes  it  had 
been  terrific,  that  feeling  within  her,  of  wanting 
to  live — to  find  outlet  for  her  energy.  So  many 
hundreds  of  lonely  walks  she  had  taken  during 
all  these  years,  trying  to  lose  herself  in  Nature — 
hurrying  alone,  running  in  the  woods,  over  the  fields, 
where  people  did  not  come,  trying  to  get  rid  of  that 


SPRING  II 

sense  of  waste,  trying  once  more  to  feel  as  she  had 
felt  when  a  girl,  with  the  whole  world  before  her. 
It  was  not  for  nothing  that  her  figure  was  superb, 
her  hair  so  bright  a  brown,  her  eyes  so  full  of  light. 
She  had  tried  many  distractions.  Work  in  the  back 
streets,  music,  acting,  hunting;  given  them  up  one 
after  the  other;  taken  to  them  passionately  again. 
They  had  served  in  the  past.  But  this  year  they 
had  not  served.  .  .  .  One  Sunday,  coming  from 
confession  unconfessed,  she  had  faced  herself.  It 
was  wicked.  She  would  have  to  kill  this  feeling — 
must  fly  from  this  boy  who  moved  her  so!  If  she 
did  not  act  quickly,  she  would  be  swept  away.  And 
then  the  thought  had  come :  Why  not?  Life  was  to 
be  lived — not  torpidly  dozed  through  in  this  queer 
cultured  place,  where  age  was  in  the  blood!  Life 
was  for  love — to  be  enjoyed!  And  she  would  be 
thirty-six  next  month!  It  seemed  to  her  already  an 
enormous  age.  Thirty-six !  Soon  she  would  be  old, 
actually  old — and  never  have  known  passion!  The 
worship,  which  had  made  a  hero  of  the  distinguished- 
looking  Englishman,  twelve  years  older  than  herself, 
who  could  lead  up  the  Cimone  della  Pala,  had  not 
been  passion.  It  might, perhaps,  have  become  passion 
if  he  had  so  willed.  But  he  was  all  form,  ice,  books. 
Had  he  a  heart  at  all,  had  he  blood  in  his  veins? 
Was  there  any  joy  of  life  in  this  too  beautiful  city 
and  these  people  who  lived  in  it — this  place  where 
even  enthusiasms  seemed  to  be  formal  and  have  no 
wings,  where  everything  was  settled  and  sophisti- 
cated as  the  very  chapels  and  cloisters?    And  yet, 


12  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

to  have  this  feeling  for  a  boy — for  one  almost  young 
enough  to  be  her  son!  It  was  so — shameless!  That 
thought  haunted  her,  made  her  flush  in  the  dark, 
lying  awake  at  night.  And  desperately  she  would 
pray — for  she  was  devout — pray  to  be  made  pure, 
to  be  given  the  holy  feelings  of  a  mother,  to  be  filled 
simply  with  the  sweet  sense  that  she  could  do  every- 
thing, suffer  anything  for  him,  for  his  good.  After 
these  long  prayers  she  would  feel  calmed,  drowsy,  as 
though  she  had  taken  a  drug.  For  hours,  perhaps,  she 
would  stay  like  that.  And  then  it  would  all  come 
over  her  again.  She  never  thought  of  his  loving  her; 
that  would  be — unnatural.  Why  should  he  love 
her?  She  was  very  humble  about  it.  Ever  since 
that  Sunday,  when  she  avoided  the  confessional,  she 
had  brooded  over  how  to  make  an  end — how  to  get 
away  from  a  longing  that  was  too  strong  for  her. 
And  she  had  hit  on  this  plan — to  beg  for  the  moun- 
tains, to  go  back  to  where  her  husband  had  come 
into  her  life,  and  try  if  this  feeUng  would  not  die. 
If  it  did  not,  she  would  ask  to  be  left  out  there  with 
her  own  people,  away  from  this  danger.  And  now 
the  fool — the  blind  fool — the  superior  fool — with  his 
satiric  smile,  his  everlasting  patronage,  had  driven 
her  to  overturn  her  own  plan.  Well,  let  him  take 
the  consequences;  she  had  done  her  best!  She 
would  have  this  one  fling  of  joy,  even  if  it  meant 
that  she  must  stay  out  there,  and  never  see  the  boy 
again ! 

Standing  in  her  dusky  hall,  where  a  faint  scent  of 
woodrot  crept  out  into  the  air,  whenever  windows 


SPRING  13 

and  doors  were  closed,  she  was  all  tremulous  with 
secret  happiness.  To  be  with  him  among  her  moun- 
tains, to  show  him  all  those  wonderful,  glittering  or 
tawny  crags,  to  go  with  him  to  the  top  of  them  and 
see  the  kingdoms  of  the  world  spread  out  below;  to 
wander  with  him  in  the  pine  woods,  on  the  Alps  in 
all  the  scent  of  the  trees  and  the  flowers,  where  the 
sun  was  hot!  The  first  of  July;  and  it  was  only  the 
tenth  of  June !  Would  she  ever  Hve  so  long?  They 
would  not  go  to  San  Martino  this  time,  rather  to 
Cortina — some  new  place  that  had  no  memories! 

She  moved  from  the  window,  and  busied  herself 
with  a  bowl  of  flowers.  She  had  heard  that  hum- 
ming sound  which  often  heralded  her  husband's  ap- 
proach, as  though  warning  the  world  to  recover  its 
good  form  before  he  reached  it.  In  her  happiness 
she  felt  kind  and  friendly  to  him.  If  he  had  not 
meant  to  give  her  joy,  he  had  nevertheless  given  it ! 
He  came  downstairs  two  at  a  time,  with  that  air  of 
not  being  a  pedagogue,  which  she  knew  so  well; 
and,  taking  his  hat  off  the  stand,  half  turned  round 
to  her. 

"Pleasant  youth,  young  Lennan;  hope  he  won't 
bore  us  out  there!" 

His  voice  seemed  to  have  an  accent  of  compunc- 
tion, to  ask  pardon  for  having  issued  that  impulsive 
invitation.  And  there  came  to  her  an  overwhelming 
wish  to  laugh.  To  hide  it,  to  find  excuse  for  it,  she 
ran  up  to  him,  and,  pulling  his  coat  lapels  till  his 
face  was  within  reach,  she  kissed  the  tip  of  his  nose. 
And  then  she  laughed.     And  he  stood  looking  at 


14  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

her,  with  his  head  just  a  Httle  on  one  side,  and  his 
eyebrows  just  a  httle  raised. 

IV 

When  young  Mark  heard  a  soft  tapping  at  his 
door,  though  out  of  bed,  he  was  getting  on  but 
dreamily — it  was  so  jolly  to  watch  the  mountains 
lying  out  in  this  early  hght  like  huge  beasts.  That 
one  they  were  going  up,  with  his  head  just  raised 
above  his  paws,  looked  very  far  away  out  there! 
Opening  the  door  an  inch,  he  whispered: 

"Is  it  late?" 

"Five  o'clock;  aren't  you  ready?" 

It  was  awfully  rude  of  him  to  keep  her  waiting! 
And  he  was  soon  down  in  the  empty  dining-room, 
where  a  sleepy  maid  was  already  bringing  in  their 
coffee.  Anna  was  there  alone.  She  had  on  a  flax- 
blue  shirt,  open  at  the  neck,  a  short  green  skirt,  and 
a  grey-green  velvety  hat,  small,  with  one  black- 
cock's feather.  Why  could  not  people  always  wear 
such  nice  things,  and  be  as  splendid-looking!  And 
he  said: 

"You  do  look  jolly,  Mrs.  Stormer!" 

She  did  not  answer  for  so  long  that  he  wondered 
if  it  had  been  rude  to  say  that.  But  she  did  look  so 
strong,  and  swift,  and  happy-looking. 

Down  the  hill,  through  a  wood  of  larch-trees,  to 
the  river,  and  across  the  bridge,  to  mount  at  once 
by  a  path  through  hay-fields.  How  could  old  Stormer 
stay  in  bed  on  such  a  morning!    The  peasant  girls 


SPRING  15 

in  their  blue  linen  skirts  were  already  gathering  into 
bundles  what  the  men  had  scythed.  One,  raking  at 
the  edge  of  a  field,  paused  and  shyly  nodded  to 
them.  She  had  the  face  of  a  Madonna,  very  calm 
and  grave  and  sweet,  with  dehcate  arched  brows — 
a  face  it  was  pure  pleasure  to  see.  The  boy  looked 
back  at  her.  Everything  to  him,  who  had  never 
been  out  of  England  before,  seemed  strange  and 
glamorous.  The  chalets,  with  their  long  wide  burnt- 
brown  wooden  balconies  and  low-hanging  eaves  jut- 
ting far  beyond  the  walls;  these  bright  dresses  of 
the  peasant  women ;  the  friendly  little  cream-coloured 
cows,  with  blunt,  smoke-grey  muzzles.  Even  the 
feel  in  the  air  was  new,  that  delicious  crisp  burning 
warmth  that  lay  so  lightly  as  it  were  on  the  surface 
of  frozen  stillness;  and  the  special  sweetness  of  all 
places  at  the  foot  of  mountains — scent  of  pine-gum, 
burning  larch-wood,  and  all  the  meadow  flowers  and 
grasses.  But  newest  of  all  was  the  feeling  within 
him — a  sort  of  pride,  a  sense  of  importance,  a  queer 
exhilaration  at  being  alone  with  her,  chosen  com- 
panion of  one  so  beautiful. 

They  passed  all  the  other  pilgrims  bound  the  same 
way — stout  square  Germans  with  their  coats  slung 
through  straps,  who  trailed  behind  them  heavy  alpen- 
stocks, carried  greenish  bags,  and  marched  stoHdly 
at  a  pace  that  never  varied,  growling,  as  Anna  and 
the  boy  went  by:   "Aber  eilen  ist  nichts!^'' 

But  those  two  could  not  go  fast  enough  to  keep 
pace  with  their  spirits.  This  was  no  real  climb — just 
a  training  walk  to  the  top  of  the  Nuvolau ;  and  they 


i6  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

were  up  before  noon,  and  soon  again  descending, 
very  hungry.  When  they  entered  the  Uttle  dining- 
room  of  the  Cinque  Torre  Hlitte,  they  found  it  occu- 
pied by  a  party  of  Enghsh  people,  eating  omelettes, 
who  looked  at  Anna  with  faint  signs  of  recognition, 
but  did  not  cease  talking  in  voices  that  all  had  a  cer- 
tain half-languid  precision,  a  slight  but  brisk  pinch- 
ing of  sounds,  as  if  determined  not  to  tolerate  a  drawl, 
and  yet  to  have  one.  Most  of  them  had  field-glasses 
slung  round  them,  and  cameras  were  dotted  here  and 
there  about  the  room.  Their  faces  were  not  really 
much  alike,  but  they  all  had  a  peculiar  drooping 
smile,  and  a  particular  lift  of  the  eyebrows,  that 
made  them  seem  reproductions  of  a  single  type. 
Their  teeth,  too,  for  the  most  part  were  a  little 
prominent,  as  though  the  drooping  of  their  mouths 
had  forced  them  forward.  They  were  eating  as  peo- 
ple eat  who  distrust  the  lower  senses,  preferring  not 
to  be  compelled  to  taste  or  smell. 

"From  our  hotel,"  whispered  Anna;  and,  ordering 
red  wine  and  schnitzels,  she  and  the  boy  sat  down. 
The  lady  who  seemed  in  command  of  the  Enghsh 
party  inquired  now  how  Mr.  Stormer  was — ^he  was 
not  laid  up,  she  hoped.  No?  Only  lazy?  Indeed! 
He  was  a  great  climber,  she  beUeved.  It  seemed 
to  the  boy  that  this  lady  somehow  did  not  quite 
approve  of  them.  The  talk  was  all  maintained 
between  her,  a  gentleman  with  a  crumpled  collar 
and  puggaree,  and  a  short  thick-set  grey-bearded 
man  in  a  dark  Norfolk  jacket.  If  any  of  the  younger 
members  of  the  party  spoke,  the  remark  was  received 


SPRING  17 

with  an  arch  lifting  of  the  brows,  and  drooping  of 
the  Hds,  as  who  should  say :  ' '  Ah !   Very  promising ! ' ' 

"Nothing  in  my  Ufe  has  given  me  greater  pain 
than  to  observe  the  aptitude  of  human  nature  for 
becoming  crystalHzed."  It  was  the  lady  in  com- 
mand who  spoke,  and  all  the  young  people  swayed 
their  faces  up  and  down,  as  if  assenting.  How  like 
they  were,  the  boy  thought,  to  guinea-fowl,  wath 
their  small  heads  and  sloping  shoulders  and  speckly 
grey  coats! 

"Ah!  my  dear  lady" — it  was  the  gentleman  with 
the  crumpled  collar — "you  novelists  are  always  gird- 
ing at  the  precious  quality  of  conformity.  The  sad- 
ness of  our  times  lies  in  this  questioning  spirit. 
Never  was  there  more  revolt,  especially  among  the 
young.  To  find  the  individual  judging  for  himself 
is  a  grave  symptom  of  national  degeneration.  But 
this  is  not  a  subject " 

"Surely,  the  subject  is  of  the  most  poignant  in- 
terest to  all  young  people."  Again  all  the  young 
ones  raised  their  faces  and  moved  them  slightly 
from  side  to  side. 

"My  dear  lady,  we  are  too  prone  to  let  the  interest 
that  things  arouse  blind  our  judgment  in  regard  to 
the  advisability  of  discussing  them.  We  let  these 
speculations  creep  and  creep  until  they  twine  them- 
selves round  our  faith  and  paralyze  it." 

One  of  the  young  men  interjected  suddenly: 
"Madre" and  was  silent. 

"I  shall  not,  I  think" — it  was  the  lady  speaking 
— "be  accused  of  licence  when  I  say  that  I  have 


l8  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

always  felt  that  speculation  is  only  dangerous  when 
indulged  in  by  the  crude  intelligence.  If  culture  has 
nothing  to  give  us,  then  let  us  have  no  culture;  but 
if  culture  be,  as  I  think  it,  indispensable,  then  we 
must  accept  the  dangers  that  culture  brings." 

Again  the  young  people  moved  their  faces,  and 
again  the  younger  of  the  two  young  men  said: 
"Madre " 

"Dangers?    Have  cultured  people  dangers?" 

Who  had  spoken  thus?  Every  eyebrow  was  going 
up,  every  mouth  was  drooping,  and  there  was  silence. 
The  boy  stared  at  his  companion.  In  what  a  strange 
voice  she  had  made  that  little  interjection!  There 
seemed  a  sort  of  flame,  too,  Hghted  in  her  eyes. 
Then  the  little  grey-bearded  man  said,  and  his  rather 
whispering  voice  sounded  hard  and  acid: 

"We  are  all  human,  my  dear  madam." 

The  boy  felt  his  heart  go  thump  at  Anna's  laugh. 
It  was  just  as  if  she  had  said:  "Ah!  but  not  you — 
surely!"  And  he  got  up  to  follow  her  towards  the 
door. 

The  English  party  had  begun  already  talking — 
of  the  weather. 

The  two  walked  some  way  from  the  'hut'  in  si- 
lence, before  Anna  said: 

"You  didn't  like  me  when  I  laughed?" 

"You  hurt  their  feeHngs,  I  think." 

"I  wanted  to — the  English  Grundy s!  Ah!  don't 
be  cross  with  me!  They  were  English  Grundys, 
weren't  they — every  one?" 

She  looked  into  his  face  so  hard,  that  he  felt  the 


SPRING  19 

blood  rush  to  his  cheeks,  and  a  dizzy  sensation  of 
being  drawn  forward. 

"They  have  no  blood,  those  people !  Their  voices, 
their  supercilious  eyes  that  look  you  up  and  down! 
Oh!  I've  had  so  much  of  them!  That  woman  with 
her  Liberalism,  just  as  bad  as  any.    I  hate  them  all ! " 

He  would  have  hked  to  hate  them,  too,  since  she 
did;   but  they  had  only  seemed  to  him  amusing. 

"They  aren't  human.  They  don't  feel!  Some 
day  you'll  know  them.  They  won't  amuse  you 
then!" 

She  went  on,  in  a  quiet,  almost  dreamy  voice: 

"Why  do  they  come  here?  It's  still  young  and 
warm  and  good  out  here.  Why  don't  they  keep  to 
their  Culture,  where  no  one  knows  what  it  is  to 
ache  and  feel  hunger,  and  hearts  don't  beat.     Feel!" 

Disturbed  beyond  measure,  the  boy  could  not  tell 
whether  it  was  in  her  heart  or  in  his  hand  that  the 
blood  was  pulsing  so.  Was  he  glad  or  sorry  when 
she  let  his  hand  go? 

"Ah,  well!  They  can't  spoil  this  day.  Let's 
rest." 

At  the  edge  of  the  larch-wood  where  they  sat, 
were  growing  numbers  of  httle  mountain  pinks,  with 
fringed  edges  and  the  sweetest  scent  imaginable ;  and 
she  got  up  presently  to  gather  them.  But  he  stayed 
where  he  was,  and  odd  sensations  stirred  in  him. 
The  blue  of  the  sky,  the  feathery  green  of  the  larch- 
trees,  the  mountains,  were  no  longer  to  him  what 
they  had  been  early  that  morning. 

She  came  back  with  her  hands  full  of  the  little 


20  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

pinks,  spread  her  fingers  and  let  them  drop.  They 
showered  all  over  his  face  and  neck.  Never  was  so 
wonderful  a  scent;  never  such  a  strange  feeling  as 
they  gave  him.  They  clung  to  his  hair,  his  fore- 
head, his  eyes,  one  even  got  caught  on  the  curve  of 
his  lips;  and  he  stared  up  at  her  through  their 
fringed  petals.  There  must  have  been  something 
wild  in  his  eyes  then,  something  of  the  feeling  that 
was  stinging  his  heart,  for  her  smile  died;  she  walked 
away,  and  stood  with  her  face  turned  from  him. 
Confused,  and  unhappy,  he  gathered  the  strewn 
flowers;  and  not  till  he  had  collected  every  one  did 
he  get  up  and  shyly  take  them  to  her,  where  she 
still  stood,  gazing  into  the  depths  of  the  larch-wood. 


What  did  he  know  of  women,  that  should  make 
him  understand?  At  his  pubhc  school  he  had  seen 
none  to  speak  to;  at  Oxford,  only  this  one.  At 
home  in  the  holidays,  not  any,  save  his  sister  Cicely. 
The  two  hobbies  of  their  guardian,  fishing,  and  the 
antiquities  of  his  native  county,  rendered  him  averse 
to  society;  so  that  his  Httle  Devonshire  manor- 
house,  with  its  black  oak  panels  and  its  wild  stone- 
walled park  along  the  river-side  was,  from  year's 
end  to  year's  end,  innocent  of  all  petticoats,  save 
those  of  Cicely  and  old  Miss  Tring,  the  governess. 
Then,  too,  the  boy  was  shy.  No,  there  was  nothing 
in  his  past,  of  not  yet  quite  nineteen  years,  to  go 
by.     He  was  not  of  those  youths  who  are  always 


SPRING  21 

thinking  of  conquests.  The  very  idea  of  conquest 
seemed  to  him  vulgar,  mean,  horrid.  There  must 
be  many  signs  indeed  before  it  would  come  into  his 
head  that  a  woman  was  in  love  with  him,  especially 
the  one  to  whom  he  looked  up,  and  thought  so  beau- 
tiful. For  before  all  beauty  he  was  humble,  inclined 
to  think  himself  a  clod.  It  was  the  part  of  life 
which  was  always  unconsciously  sacred,  and  to  be 
approached  trembling.  The  more  he  admired,  the 
more  tremulous  and  diffident  he  became.  And  so, 
after  his  one  wild  moment,  when  she  plucked  those 
sweet-scented  blossoms  and  dropped  them  over  him, 
he  felt  abashed;  and  walking  home  beside  her  he 
was  quieter  than  ever,  awkward  to  the  depths  of 
his  soul. 

If  there  were  confusion  in  his  heart  which  had  been 
innocent  of  trouble,  what  must  there  have  been  in 
hers,  that  for  so  long  had  secretly  desired  the  dawn- 
ing of  that  confusion?    And  she,  too,  was  very  silent. 

Passing  a  church  with  open  door  in  the  outskirts 
of  the  village,  she  said: 

"Don't  wait  for  me — I  want  to  go  in  here  a  little." 

In  the  empty  twilight  within,  one  figure,  a  coun- 
trywoman in  her  black  shawl,  was  kneeling — mar- 
vellously still.  He  would  have  liked  to  stay.  That 
kneeling  figure,  the  smile  of  the  sunlight  filtering 
through  into  the  half  darkness!  He  lingered  long 
enough  to  see  Anna,  too,  go  down  on  her  knees  in 
the  stillness.  Was  she  praying?  Again  he  had  the 
turbulent  feeling  with  which  he  had  watched  her 
pluck  those  flowers.     She  looked  so  splendid  kneel- 


22  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

ing  there!  It  was  caddish  to  feel  Hke  that,  when  she 
was  praying,  and  he  turned  quickly  away  into  the 
road.  But  that  sharp,  sweet  stinging  sensation  did 
not  leave  him.  He  shut  his  eyes  to  get  rid  of  her 
image — and  instantly  she  became  ten  times  more 
visible,  his  feeling  ten  times  stronger.  He  mounted 
to  the  hotel;  there  on  the  terrace  was  his  tutor. 
And  oddly  enough,  the  sight  of  him  at  that  moment 
was  no  more  embarrassing  than  if  it  had  been  the 
hotel  concierge.  Stormer  did  not  somehow  seem  to 
count;  did  not  seem  to  want  you  to  count  him. 
Besides,  he  was  so  old — nearly  fifty! 

The  man  who  was  so  old  was  posed  in  a  charac- 
teristic attitude — hands  in  the  pockets  of  his  Nor- 
folk jacket,  one  shoulder  slightly  raised,  head  just 
a  Httle  on  one  side,  as  if  preparing  to  quiz  some- 
thing. He  spoke  as  Lennan  came  up,  smiling — but 
not  with  his  eyes. 

"Well,  young  man,  and  what  have  you  done  with 
my  wife?" 

"Left  her  in  a  church,  sir." 

"Ah!  She  will  do  that!  Has  she  run  you  off 
your  legs?    No?    Then  let's  walk  and  talk  a  httle." 

To  be  thus  pacing  up  and  down  and  talking  with 
her  husband  seemed  quite  natural,  did  not  even  in- 
terfere with  those  new  sensations,  did  not  in  the 
least  increase  his  shame  for  having  them.  He  only 
wondered  a  little  how  she  could  have  married  him 
— but  so  Httle!  Quite  far  and  academic  was  his 
wonder — like  his  wonder  in  old  days  how  his  sister 
could  care  to  play  with  dolls.     If  he  had  any  other 


SPRING  23 

feeling,  it  was  just  a  longing  to  get  away  and  go 
down  the  hill  again  to  the  church.  It  seemed  cold 
and  lonely  after  all  that  long  day  with  her — as  if  he 
had  left  himself  up  there,  walking  along  hour  after 
hour,  or  lying  out  in  the  sun  beside  her.  What  was 
old  Stormer  talking  about?  The  difference  between 
the  Greek  and  Roman  views  of  honour.  Always  in 
the  past — seemed  to  think  the  present  was  bad  form. 
And  he  said: 

"We  met  some  Enghsh  Grundys,  sir,  on  the  moun- 
tain." 

''Ah,  yes!    Any  particular  brand?" 

"Some  advanced,  and  some  not;  but  all  the  same, 
I  think,  really." 

"I  see.     Grundys,  I  think  you  said?" 

"Yes,  sir,  from  this  hotel.  It  was  Mrs.  Stormer's 
name  for  them.    They  were  so  very  superior." 

"Quite." 

There  was  something  unusual  in  the  tone  of  that 
little  word.  And  the  boy  stared — for  the  first  time 
there  seemed  a  real  man  standing  there.  Then  the 
blood  rushed  up  into  his  cheeks,  for  there  she  was! 
Would  she  come  up  to  them?  How  splendid  she 
was  looking,  burnt  by  the  sun,  and  walking  as  if 
just  starting!  But  she  passed  into  the  hotel  with- 
out turning  her  head  their  way.  Had  he  offended, 
hurt  her?  He  made  an  excuse,  and  got  away  to  his 
room. 

In  the  window  from  which  that  same  morning  he 
had  watched  the  mountains  lying  out  like  lions  in 
the  dim  light,  he  stood  again,  and  gazed  at  the 


24  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

sun  dropping  over  the  high  horizon.  What  had  hap- 
pened to  him?  He  felt  so  different,  so  utterly  dif- 
ferent. It  was  another  world.  And  the  most  strange 
feeling  came  on  him,  as  of  the  flowers  falling  again 
all  over  his  face  and  neck  and  hands,  the  tickling  of 
their  soft-fringed  edges,  the  stinging  sweetness  of 
their  scent.  And  he  seemed  to  hear  her  voice  say- 
ing: "Feel!"  and  to  feel  her  heart  once  more  beat- 
ing under  his  hand. 

VI 

Alone  with  that  black-shawled  figure  in  the  silent 
church,  Anna  did  not  pray.  Resting  there  on  her 
knees,  she  experienced  only  the  sore  sensation  of  re- 
volt. Why  had  Fate  flung  this  feeHng  into  her 
heart,  lighted  up  her  life  suddenly,  if  God  refused 
her  its  enjoyment?  Some  of  the  mountain  pinks  re- 
mained chnging  to  her  belt,  and  the  scent  of  them, 
crushed  against  her,  warred  with  the  faint  odour  of 
age  and  incense.  While  they  were  there,  with  their 
enticement  and  their  memories,  prayer  would  never 
come.  But  did  she  want  to  pray?  Did  she  desire 
the  mood  of  that  poor  soul  in  her  black  shawl,  who 
had  not  moved  by  one  hair's  breadth  since  she  had 
been  watching  her,  who  seemed  resting  her  humble 
self  so  utterly,  letting  life  Hft  from  her,  feeling  the 
relief  of  nothingness?  Ah,  yes!  what  would  it  be  to 
have  a  life  so  toilsome,  so  little  exciting  from  day 
to  day  and  hour  to  hour,  that  just  to  kneel  there  in 
wistful  stupor  was  the  greatest  pleasure  one  could 


SPRING  25 

know?  It  was  beautiful  to  see  her,  but  it  was  sad. 
And  there  came  over  Anna  a  longing  to  go  up  to 
her  neighbour  and  say:  "Tell  me  your  troubles; 
we  are  both  women."  She  had  lost  a  son,  perhaps, 
some  love — or  perhaps  not  really  love,  only  some 
illusion.  Ah!  Love.  .  .  .  Why  should  any  spirit 
yearn,  why  should  any  body,  full  of  strength  and 
joy,  wither  slowly  away  for  want  of  love?  Was 
there  not  enough  in  this  great  world  for  her,  Anna, 
to  have  a  little?  She  would  not  harm  him,  for  she 
would  know  when  he  had  had  enough  of  her;  she 
would  surely  have  the  pride  and  grace  then  to  let 
him  go.  For,  of  course,  he  would  get  tired  of  her. 
At  her  age  she  could  never  hope  to  hold  a  boy  more 
than  a  few  years — months,  perhaps.  But  would 
she  ever  hold  him  at  all?  Youth  was  so  hard — it 
had  no  heart!  And  then  the  memory  of  his  eyes 
came  back — gazing  up,  troubled,  almost  wild — when 
she  had  dropped  on  him  those  flowers.  That  mem- 
ory filled  her  with  a  sort  of  delirium.  One  look  from 
her  then,  one  touch,  and  he  would  have  clasped  her 
to  him.  She  was  sure  of  it,  yet  scarcely  dared  to 
believe  what  meant  so  much.  And  suddenly  the 
torment  that  she  must  go  through,  whatever  hap- 
pened, seemed  to  her  too  brutal  and  undeserved! 
She  rose.  Just  one  gleam  of  sunlight  was  still  slant- 
ing through  the  doorway;  it  failed  by  a  yard  or  so 
to  reach  the  kneeling  countr>'^voman,  and  Anna 
watched.  Would  it  steal  on  and  touch  her,  or  would 
the  sun  pass  down  behind  the  mountains,  and  it 
fade  away?     Unconscious  of  that  issue,  the  black- 


26  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

shawled  figure  knelt,  never  moving.  And  the  beam 
crept  on.     "If  it  touches  her,  then  he  will  love  me, 

if  only  for  an  hour;    if  it  fades  out  too  soon " 

And  the  beam  crept  on.  That  shadowy  path  of 
light,  with  its  dancing  dust-motes,  was  it  indeed 
charged  with  Fate — indeed  the  augury  of  Love  or 
Darkness?  And,  slowly  moving,  it  mounted,  the 
sun  sinking;  it  rose  above  that  bent  head,  hovered 
in  a  golden  mist,  passed — and  suddenly  was  gone. 

Unsteadily,  seeing  nothing  plain,  Anna  walked  out 
of  the  church.  Why  she  passed  her  husband  and 
the  boy  on  the  terrace  without  a  look  she  could  not 
quite  have  said — ^perhaps  because  the  tortured  does 
not  salute  her  torturers.  When  she  reached  her 
room  she  felt  deadly  tired,  and  lying  down  on  her 
bed,  almost  at  once  fell  asleep. 

She  was  wakened  by  a  sound,  and,  recognizing  the 
delicate  '  rat-tat '  of  her  husband's  knock,  did  not  an- 
swer, indifferent  whether  he  came  in  or  no.  He  en- 
tered noiselessly.  If  she  did  not  let  him  know  she 
was  awake,  he  would  not  wake  her.  She  lay  still 
and  watched  him  sit  down  astride  of  a  chair,  cross 
his  arms  on  its  back,  rest  his  chin  on  them,  and  fix 
his  eyes  on  her.  Through  her  veil  of  eyelashes  she 
had  unconsciously  contrived  that  his  face  should  be 
the  one  object  plainly  seen — the  more  intensely  vis- 
ualized, because  of  this  queer  isolation.  She  did  not 
feel  at  all  ashamed  of  this  mutual  fixed  scrutiny,  in 
which  she  had  such  advantage.  He  had  never  shown 
her  what  was  in  him,  never  revealed  what  lay  be- 
hind those  bright  satiric  eyes.     Now,  perhaps,  she 


SPRING  27 

would  see!  And  she  lay,  regarding  him  with  the 
intense  excited  absorption  with  which  one  looks  at 
a  tiny  wildflower  through  a  magnifying-lens,  and 
watches  its  insignificance  expanded  to  the  size  and 
importance  of  a  hothouse  bloom.  In  her  mind  was 
this  thought:  He  is  looking  at  me  with  his  real  self, 
since  he  has  no  reason  for  armour  against  me  now. 
At  first  his  eyes  seemed  masked  with  their  custom- 
ary brightness,  his  whole  face  with  its  usual  deco- 
^rous  formality;  then  gradually  he  became  so  changed 
that  she  hardly  knew  him.  That  decorousness,  that 
brightness,  melted  off  what  lay  behind,  as  frosty  dew 
melts  off  grass.  And  her  very  soul  contracted  within 
her,  as  if  she  had  become  identified  with  what  he 
was  seeing — a  something  to  be  passed  over,  a  very 
nothing.  Yes,  his  was  the  face  of  one  looking  at 
what  was  unintelligible,  and  therefore  neghgible;  at 
that  which  had  no  soul;  at  something  of  a  different 
and  inferior  species  and  of  no  great  interest  to  a 
man.  His  face  was  like  a  soundless  avowal  of  some 
conclusion,  so  fixed  and  intimate  that  it  must  surely 
emanate  from  the  very  core  of  him — be  instinctive, 
unchangeable.  This  was  the  real  he!  A  man  de- 
spising women!  Her  first  thought  was:  And  he's 
married — what  a  fate!  Her  second:  If  he  feels  that, 
perhaps  thousands  of  men  do !  Am  I  and  all  women 
really  what  they  think  us?  The  conviction  in  his 
stare — its  through-and-through  conviction — had  in- 
fected her;  and  she  gave  in  to  it  for  the  moment, 
crushed.  Then  her  spirit  revolted  with  such  turbu- 
lence, and  the  blood  so  throbbed  in  her,  that  she 


28  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

could  hardly  lie  still.  How  dare  he  think  her  like 
that — a  nothing,  a  bundle  of  soulless  inexplicable 
whims  and  moods  and  sensuality?  A  thousand  times, 
No!  It  was  he  who  was  the  soulless  one,  the  dry,  the 
godless  one;  who,  in  his  sickening  superiority,  could 
thus  deny  her,  and  with  her  all  women!  That  stare 
was  as  if  he  saw  her — a  doll  tricked  out  in  garments 
labelled  soul,  spirit,  rights,  responsibilities,  dignity, 
freedom — all  so  many  words.  It  was  vile,  it  was 
horrible,  that  he  should  see  her  thus!  And  a  really 
terrific  struggle  began  in  her  between  the  desire  to 
get  up  and  cry  this  out,  and  the  knowledge  that  it 
would  be  stupid,  undignified,  even  mad,  to  show  her 
comprehension  of  what  he  would  never  admit  or 
even  understand  that  he  had  revealed  to  her.  And 
then  a  sort  of  cynicism  came  to  her  rescue.  What 
a  funny  thing  was  married  life — to  have  lived  all 
these  years  with  him,  and  never  known  what  was  at 
the  bottom  of  his  heart!  She  had  the  feeling  now 
that,  if  she  went  up  to  him  and  said:  "I  am  in  love 
with  that  boy!"  it  would  only  make  him  droop  the 
corners  of  his  mouth  and  say  in  his  most  satiric 
voice:  "Really!  That  is  very  interesting!" — would 
not  change  in  one  iota  his  real  thoughts  of  her;  only 
confirm  him  in  the  conviction  that  she  was  negli- 
gible, inexpHcable,  an  inferior  strange  form  of  animal, 
of  no  real  interest  to  him. 

And  then,  just  when  she  felt  that  she  could  not 
hold  herself  in  any  longer,  he  got  up,  passed  on  tiptoe 
to  the  door,  opened  it  noiselessly,  and  went  out. 

The  moment  he  had  gone,  she  jumped  up.     So, 


SPRING  29 

then,  she  was  linked  to  one  for  whom  she,  for  whom 
women,  did  not,  as  it  were,  exist!  It  seemed  to  her 
that  she  had  stumbled  on  knowledge  of  almost  sa- 
cred importance,  on  the  key  of  everything  that  had 
been  puzzling  and  hopeless  in  their  married  life.  If 
he  really,  secretly,  whole-heartedly  despised  her,  the 
only  feeling  she  need  have  for  one  so  dry,  so  narrow, 
so  basically  stupid,  was  just  contempt.  But  she 
knew  well  enough  that  contempt  would  not  shake 
what  she  had  seen  in  his  face;  he  was  impregnably 
walled  within  his  clever,  dull  conviction  of  superior- 
ity. He  was  for  ever  intrenched,  and  she  would  al- 
ways be  only  the  assailant.  Though — what  did  it 
matter,  now? 

Usually  swift,  almost  careless,  she  was  a  long  time 
that  evening  over  her  toilette.  Her  neck  was  very 
sunburnt,  and  she  Hngered,  doubtful  whether  to  hide 
it  with  powder,  or  accept  her  gipsy  colouring.  She 
did  accept  it,  for  she  saw  that  it  gave  her  eyes,  so 
like  glacier  ice,  under  their  black  lashes,  and  her  hair, 
with  its  surprising  glints  of  flame  colour,  a  peculiar 
value. 

When  the  dinner-bell  rang  she  passed  her  hus- 
band's door  without,  as  usual,  knocking,  and  went 
down  alone. 

In  the  hall  she  noticed  some  of  the  EngHsh  party 
of  the  mountain  hut.  They  did  not  greet  her,  con- 
ceiving an  immediate  interest  in  the  barometer;  but 
she  could  feel  them  staring  at  her  very  hard.  She 
sat  down  to  wait,  and  at  once  became  conscious  of 
the  boy  coming  over  from  the  other  side  of  the  room, 


30  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

rather  like  a  person  walking  in  his  sleep.  He  said 
not  a  word.  But  how  he  looked!  And  her  heart 
began  to  beat.  Was  this  the  moment  she  had 
longed  for?  If  it,  indeed,  had  come,  dared  she  take 
it?  Then  she  saw  her  husband  descending  the  stairs, 
saw  him  greet  the  English  party,  heard  the  intoning 
of  their  drawl.  She  looked  up  at  the  boy,  and  said 
quickly:  "Was  it  a  happy  day?"  It  gave  her  such 
delight  to  keep  that  look  on  his  face,  that  look  as 
if  he  had  forgotten  everything  except  just  the  sight 
of  her.  His  eyes  seemed  to  have  in  them  something 
holy  at  that  moment,  something  of  the  wonder- 
yearning  of  Nature  and  of  innocence.  It  was  dread- 
ful to  know  that  in  a  moment  that  look  must  be  gone; 
perhaps  never  to  come  back  on  his  face — that  look 
so  precious!  Her  husband  was  approaching  now! 
Let  him  see,  if  he  would!  Let  him  see  that  some- 
one could  adore — that  she  was  not  to  everyone  a 
kind  of  lower  animal.  Yes,  he  must  have  seen  the 
boy's  face;  and  yet  his  expression  never  changed. 
He  noticed  nothing !  Or  was  it  that  he  disdained  to 
notice? 

VII 

Then  followed  for  young  Lennan  a  strange  time, 
when  he  never  knew  from  minute  to  minute  whether 
he  was  happy — always  trying  to  be  with  her,  rest- 
less if  he  could  not  be,  sore  if  she  talked  with  and 
smiled  at  others;  yet,  when  he  was  with  her,  restless 
too,  unsatisfied,  suffering  from  his  own  timidity. 


SPRING  31 

One  wet  morning,  when  she  was  playing  the  hotel 
piano,  and  he  listening,  thinking  to  have  her  to  him- 
self, there  came  a  young  German  violinist — pale,  and 
with  a  brown,  thin-waisted  coat,  longish  hair,  and 
little  whiskers — rather  a  beast,  in  fact.  Soon,  of 
course,  this  young  beast  was  asking  her  to  accom- 
pany him — as  if  anyone  wanted  to  hear  him  play 
his  disgusting  violin!  Every  word  and  smile  that 
she  gave  him  hurt  so,  seeing  how  much  more  inter- 
esting than  himself  this  foreigner  was!  And  his 
heart  grew  heavier  and  heavier,  and  he  thought:  If 
she  likes  him  I  ought  not  to  mind — only,  I  do  mind! 
How  can  I  help  minding?  It  was  hateful  to  see  her 
smihng,  and  the  young  beast  bending  down  to  her. 
And  they  were  talking  German,  so  that  he  could  not 
tell  what  they  were  saying,  which  made  it  more  un- 
bearable. He  had  not  known  there  could  be  such 
torture. 

And  then  he  began  to  want  to  hurt  her,  too.  But 
that  was  mean — besides,  how  could  he  hurt  her? 
She  did  not  care  for  him.  He  was  nothing  to  her 
— only  a  boy.  If  she  really  thought  him  only  a  boy, 
who  felt  so  old — it  would  be  horrible.  It  flashed 
across  him  that  she  might  be  playing  that  young 
violinist  against  him !  No,  she  never  would  do  that ! 
But  the  young  beast  looked  just  the  sort  that  might 
take  advantage  of  her  smiles.  If  only  he  would  do 
something  that  was  not  respectful,  how  splendid  it 
would  be  to  ask  him  to  come  for  a  walk  in  the  woods, 
and,  having  told  him  why,  give  him  a  thrashing. 
Afterwards,  he  would  not  tell  her,  he  would  not  try 


32  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

to  gain  credit  by  it.  He  would  keep  away  till  she 
wanted  him  back.  But  suddenly  the  thought  of 
what  he  would  feel  if  she  really  meant  to  take  this 
young  man  as  her  friend  in  place  of  him  became  so 
actual,  so  poignant,  so  horribly  painful,  that  he  got 
up  abruptly  and  went  towards  the  door.  Would 
she  not  say  a  word  to  him  before  he  got  out  of  the 
room,  would  she  not  try  and  keep  him?  If  she  did 
not,  surely  it  would  be  all  over;  it  would  mean  that 
anybody  was  more  to  her  than  he.  That  Uttle  jour- 
ney to  the  door,  indeed,  seemed  like  a  march  to 
execution.  Would  she  not  call  after  him?  He 
looked  back.  She  was  smiHng.  But  he  could  not 
smile;  she  had  hurt  him  too  much!  Turning  his 
head  away,  he  went  out,  and  dashed  into  the  rain 
bareheaded.  The  feeling  of  it  on  his  face  gave  him 
a  sort  of  dismal  satisfaction.  Soon  he  would  be  wet 
through.  Perhaps  he  would  get  ill.  Out  here,  far 
away  from  his  people,  she  would  have  to  offer  to 
nurse  him;  and  perhaps — perhaps  in  his  illness  he 
would  seem  to  her  again  more  interesting  than  that 

young  beast,  and  then Ah!  if  only  he  could  be 

ill! 

He  mounted  rapidly  through  the  dripping  leaves 
towards  the  foot  of  the  low  mountain  that  rose  be- 
hind the  hotel.  A  trail  went  up  there  to  the  top, 
and  he  struck  into  it,  going  at  a  great  pace.  His 
sense  of  injury  began  dying  away;  he  no  longer 
wanted  to  be  ill.  The  rain  had  stopped,  the  sun 
came  out;  he  went  on,  up  and  up.  He  would  get 
to  the  top  quicker  than  anyone  ever  had!    It  was 


SPRING  33 

something  he  could  do  better  than  that  young  beast. 
The  pine-trees  gave  way  to  stunted  larches,  and 
these  to  pine  scrub  and  bare  scree,  up  which  he 
scrambled,  clutching  at  the  tough  bushes,  terribly 
out  of  breath,  his  heart  pumping,  the  sweat  stream- 
ing into  his  eyes.  He  had  no  feeling  now  but  won- 
der whether  he  would  get  to  the  top  before  he  dropped, 
exhausted.  He  thought  he  would  die  of  the  beating 
of  his  heart;  but  it  was  better  to  die  than  to  stop 
and  be  beaten  by  a  few  yards.  He  stumbled  up  at 
last  on  to  the  little  plateau  at  the  top.  For  full  ten 
minutes  he  lay  there  on  his  face  without  moving, 
then  rolled  over.  His  heart  had  given  up  that  ter- 
rific thumping;  he  breathed  luxuriously,  stretched 
out  his  arms  along  the  steaming  grass — felt  happy. 
It  was  wonderful  up  here,  with  the  sun  burning  hot 
in  a  sky  clear-blue  already.  How  tiny  everything 
looked  below — hotel,  trees,  village,  chalets — little 
toy  things!  He  had  never  before  felt  the  sheer  joy 
of  being  high  up.  The  rain-clouds,  torn  and  driven 
in  huge  white  shapes  along  the  mountains  to  the 
South,  were  like  an  army  of  giants  with  chariots  and 
white  horses  hurrying  away.  He  thought  suddenly: 
"Suppose  I  had  died  when  my  heart  pumped  so! 
Would  it  have  mattered  the  least  bit?  Everything 
would  be  going  on  just  the  same,  the  sun  shining, 
the  blue  up  there  the  same;  and  those  toy  things 
down  in  the  valley."  That  jealousy  of  his  an  hour 
ago,  why — it  was  nothing — he  himself  nothing! 
What  did  it  matter  if  she  were  nice  to  that  fellow 
in   the  brown   coat?    What  did  anything   matter 


34  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

when  the  whole  thing  was  so  big — and  he  such  a 
tiny  scrap  of  it? 

On  the  edge  of  the  plateau,  to  mark  the  highest 
point,  someone  had  erected  a  rude  cross,  which 
jutted  out  stark  against  the  blue  sky.  It  looked 
cruel  somehow,  sagged  all  crooked,  and  out  of  place 
up  here;  a  piece  of  bad  manners,  as  if  people  with 
only  one  idea  had  dragged  it  in,  without  caring 
whether  or  no  it  suited  what  was  around  it.  One 
might  just  as  well  introduce  one  of  these  rocks  into 
that  jolly  dark  church  where  he  had  left  her  the 
other  day,  as  put  a  cross  up  here. 

A  sound  of  bells,  and  of  sniffing  and  scuffling, 
roused  him;  a  large  grey  goat  had  come  up  and 
was  smelling  at  his  hair — the  leader  of  a  flock,  that 
were  soon  all  round  him,  solemnly  curious,  with  their 
queer  yellow  oblong-pupilled  eyes,  and  their  quaint 
Httle  beards  and  tails.  Awfully  decent  beasts — and 
friendly!  What  jolly  things  to  model!  He  lay  still 
(having  learnt  from  the  fisherman,  his  guardian, 
that  necessary  habit  in  the  presence  of  all  beasts), 
while  the  leader  sampled  the  flavour  of  his  neck. 
The  passage  of  that  long  rough  tongue  athwart 
his  skin  gave  him  an  agreeable  sensation,  awa- 
kened a  strange  deep  sense  of  comradeship.  He  re- 
strained his  desire  to  stroke  the  creature's  nose.  It 
appeared  that  they  now  all  wished  to  taste  his  neck; 
but  some  were  timid,  and  the  touch  of  their  tongues 
simply  a  tickle,  so  that  he  was  compelled  to  laugh, 
and  at  that  peculiar  sound  they  withdrew  and  gazed 
at  him.     There  seemed  to  be  no  one  with  them; 


SPRING  35 

then,  at  a  little  distance,  quite  motionless  in  the 
shade  of  a  rock,  he  spied  the  goatherd,  a  boy  about 
his  own  age.  How  lonely  he  must  be  up  here  all 
day!  Perhaps  he  talked  to  his  goats.  He  looked  as 
if  he  might.  One  would  get  to  have  queer  thoughts 
up  here,  get  to  know  the  rocks,  and  clouds,  and 
beasts,  and  what  they  all  meant.  The  goatherd  ut- 
tered a  peculiar  whistle,  and  something,  Lennan 
could  not  tell  exactly  what,  happened  among  the 
goats — a  sort  of  "Here,  Sir!"  seemed  to  come  from 
them.  And  then  the  goatherd  moved  out  from  the 
shade  and  went  over  to  the  edge  of  the  plateau,  and 
two  of  the  goats  that  were  feeding  there  thrust  their 
noses  into  his  hand,  and  rubbed  themselves  against 
his  legs.  The  three  looked  beautiful  standing  there 
together  on  the  edge  against  the  sky.  .  .  . 

That  night,  after  dinner,  the  dining-room  was 
cleared  for  dancing,  so  that  the  guests  might  feel 
freedom  and  gaiety  in  the  air.  And,  indeed,  pres- 
ently, a  couple  began  sawing  up  and  down  over  the 
polished  boards,  in  the  apologetic  manner  peculiar 
to  hotel  guests.  Then  three  pairs  of  Italians  sud- 
denly launched  themselves  into  space — twirling  and 
twirling,  and  glaring  into  each  other's  eyes;  and  some 
Americans,  stimulated  by  their  precept,  began  airily 
backing  and  filling.  Two  of  the  '  English  Grundys ' 
with  carefully  amused  faces  next  moved  out.  To 
Lennan  it  seemed  that  they  all  danced  very  well, 
better  than  he  could.  Did  he  dare  ask  her?  Then 
he  saw  the  young  violinist  go  up,  saw  her  rise  and 
take  his  arm  and  vanish  into  the  dancing-room;  and 


36  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

leaning  his  forehead  against  a  window-pane,  with  a 
sick,  beaten  feeling,  he  stayed,  looking  out  into  the 
moonlight,  seeing  nothing.  He  heard  his  name 
spoken;  his  tutor  was  standing  beside  him. 

"You  and  I,  Lennan,  must  console  each  other. 
Dancing's  for  the  young,  eh?" 

Fortunately  it  was  the  boy's  instinct  and  his 
training  not  to  show  his  feelings;  to  be  pleasant, 
though  suffering. 

"Yes,  sir.     Jolly  moonlight,  isn't  it,  out  there?" 

"Ah!  very  jolly;  yes.  When  I  was  your  age  I 
twirled  the  light  fantastic  with  the  best.  But  grad- 
ually, Lennan,  one  came  to  see  it  could  not  be  done 
without  a  partner — there  was  the  rub!  Tell  me — 
do  you  regard  women  as  responsible  beings?  I 
should  like  to  have  your  opinion  on  that." 

It  was,  of  course,  ironical — yet  there  was  some- 
thing in  those  words — something! 

"I  think  it's  you,  sir,  who  ought  to  give  me  yours." 

"My  dear  Lennan — my  experience  is  a  mere  noth- 
ing!" 

That  was  meant  for  unkindness  to  her !  He  would 
not  answer.  If  only  Stormer  would  go  away !  The 
music  had  stopped.  They  would  be  sitting  out 
somewhere,  talking!     He  made  an  effort,  and  said: 

"I  was  up  the  hill  at  the  back  this  morning,  where 
the  cross  is.     There  were  some  jolly  goats." 

And  suddenly  he  saw  her  coming.  She  was  alone 
— flushed,  smiling;  it  struck  him  that  her  frock  was 
the  same  colour  as  the  moonlight. 

"Harold,  will  you  dance?" 


SPRING  37 

He  would  say  'Yes,'  and  she  would  be  gone  again! 
But  his  tutor  only  made  her  a  httle  bow,  and  said 
with  that  smile  of  his: 

"Lennan  and  I  have  agreed  that  dancing  is  for 
the  young." 

"Sometimes  the  old  must  sacrifice  themselves. 
Mark,  will  you  dance?" 

Behind  him  he  heard  his  tutor  murmur: 

"Ah!  Lennan — you  betray  me!" 

That  Uttle  silent  journey  with  her  to  the  dancing- 
room  was  the  happiest  moment  perhaps  that  he  had 
ever  known.  And  he  need  not  have  been  so  much 
afraid  about  his  dancing.  Truly,  it  was  not  polished, 
but  it  could  not  spoil  hers,  so  light,  firm,  buoyant! 
It  was  wonderful  to  dance  with  her.  Only  when  the 
music  stopped  and  they  sat  down  did  he  know  how 
his  head  was  going  round.  He  felt  strange,  very 
strange  indeed.     He  heard  her  say: 

"What  is  it,  dear  boy?     You  look  so  white!" 

Without  quite  knowing  what  he  did,  he  bent  his 
face  towards  the  hand  that  she  had  laid  on  his 
sleeve,  then  knew  no  more,  having  fainted. 

VIII 

Growing  boy — over-exertion  in  the  morning! 
That  was  all!  He  was  himself  very  quickly,  and 
walked  up  to  bed  without  assistance.  Rotten  of 
him!  Never  was  anyone  more  ashamed  of  his  little 
weakness  than  this  boy.  Now  that  he  was  really  a 
trifle  indisposed,  he  simply  could  not  bear  the  idea 


38  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

of  being  nursed  at  all  or  tended.  Almost  rudely  he 
had  got  away.  Only  when  he  was  in  bed  did  he 
remember  the  look  on  her  face  as  he  left  her.  How 
wistful  and  unhappy,  seeming  to  im.plore  him  to 
forgive  her!  As  if  there  were  anything  to  forgive! 
As  if  she  had  not  made  him  perfectly  happy  when 
she  danced  with  him!  He  longed  to  say  to  her :  "If 
I  might  be  close  to  you  hke  that  one  minute  every 
day,  then  I  don't  mind  all  the  rest!"  Perhaps  he 
would  dare  say  that  to-morrow.  Lying  there  he 
still  felt  a  httle  funny.  He  had  forgotten  to  close 
the  ribs  of  the  bhnds,  and  moonlight  was  filtering 
in;  but  he  was  too  idle,  too  drowsy  to  get  up  now 
and  do  it.  They  had  given  him  brandy,  rather  a 
lot — that  perhaps  was  the  reason  he  felt  so  queer; 
not  ill,  but  mazy,  as  if  dreaming,  as  if  he  had  lost 
the  desire  ever  to  move  again.  Just  to  lie  there, 
and  watch  the  powdery  moonhght,  and  hear  far- 
away music  throbbing  down  below,  and  still  feel  the 
touch  of  her,  as  in  the  dance  she  swayed  against 
him,  and  all  the  time  to  have  the  scent  about  him 
of  flowers!  His  thoughts  were  dreams,  his  dreams 
thoughts — all  precious  unreality.  And  then  it  seemed 
to  him  that  the  moonlight  was  gathered  into  a 
single  slip  of  pallor — there  was  a  thrumming,  a 
throbbing,  and  that  shape  of  moonlight  moved  to- 
wards him.  It  came  so  close  that  he  felt  its  warmth 
against  his  brow;  it  sighed,  hovered,  drew  back 
soundless,  and  was  gone.  He  must  have  fallen  then 
into  dreamless  sleep.  .  .  . 

What  time  was  it  when  he  was  awakened  by  that 


SPRING  39 

delicate  'rat-tat'  to  see  his  tutor  standing  in  the 
doorway  with  a  cup  of  tea? 

Was  young  Lennan  all  right?  Yes,  he  was  per- 
fectly all  right — would  be  down  directly!  It  was 
most  frightfully  good  of  Mr.  Stormer  to  come!  He 
really  didn't  want  anything. 

Yes,  yes;  but  the  maimed  and  the  halt  must  be 
attended  to! 

His  face  seemed  to  the  boy  very  kind  just  then 
— only  to  laugh  at  him  a  very  little — just  enough. 
And  it  was  awfully  decent  of  him  to  have  come,  and 
to  stand  there  while  he  drank  the  tea.  He  was 
really  all  right,  but  for  a  little  headache.  Many 
times  while  he  was  dressing  he  stood  still,  trying 
to  remember.  That  white  slip  of  moonlight?  Was 
it  moonlight?  Was  it  part  of  a  dream;  or  was  it, 
could  it  have  been  she,  in  her  moonlight-coloured 
frock?  Why  had  he  not  stayed  awake?  He  would 
not  dare  to  ask  her,  and  now  would  never  know 
whether  the  vague  memory  of  warmth  on  his  brow 
had  been  a  kiss. 

He  breakfasted  alone  in  the  room  where  they  had 
danced.  There  were  two  letters  for  him.  One  from 
his  guardian  enclosing  money,  and  complaining  of 
the  shyness  of  the  trout;  the  other  from  his  sister. 
The  man  she  was  engaged  to — he  was  a  budding 
diplomat,  attached  to  the  Embassy  at  Rome — was 
afraid  that  his  leave  was  going  to  be  curtailed.  They 
would  have  to  be  married  at  once.  They  might 
even  have  to  get  a  special  licence.  It  was  lucky 
Mark  was  coming  back  so  soon.     They  simply  must 


40  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

have  him  for  best  man.  The  only  bridesmaid  now 
would  be  Sylvia.  .  .  .  Sylvia  Doone?  Why,  she 
was  only  a  kid!  And  the  memory  of  a  little  girl 
in  a  very  short  holland  frock,  with  flaxen  hair,  pretty 
blue  eyes,  and  a  face  so  fair  that  you  could  almost 
see  through  it,  came  up  before  him.  But  that,  of 
course,  was  six  years  ago;  she  would  not  still  be  in 
a  frock  that  showed  her  knees,  or  wear  beads,  or  be 
afraid  of  bulls  that  were  never  there.  It  was  stupid 
being  best  man — they  might  have  got  some  decent 
chap!  And  then  he  forgot  all — for  there  was  she, 
out  on  the  terrace.  In  his  rush  to  join  her  he  passed 
several  of  the  'English  Grundy s,'  who  stared  at  him 
askance.  Indeed,  his  conduct  of  the  night  before 
might  well  have  upset  them.  An  Oxford  man,  faint- 
ing in  an  hotel!     Something  wrong  there!  .  .  . 

And  then,  when  he  reached  her,  he  did  find  cour- 
age. 

"Was  it  really  moonlight?" 

"All  moonlight." 

"But  it  was  warm!" 

And,  when  she  did  not  answer  that,  he  had  within 
him  just  the  same  light,  intoxicated  feehng  as  after 
he  had  won  a  race  at  school. 

But  now  came  a  dreadful  blow.  His  tutor's  old 
guide  had  suddenly  turned  up,  after  a  climb  with  a 
party  of  Germans.  The  war-horse  had  been  aroused 
in  Stormer.  He  wished  to  start  that  afternoon  for 
a  certain  hut,  and  go  up  a  certain  peak  at  dawn 
next  day.  But  Lennan  was  not  to  go.  Why  not? 
Because  of  last  night's  faint;  and  because,  forsooth, 


SPRING  41 

he  was  not  some  stupid  thing  they  called  'an  ex- 
pert/   As  if !    Where  she  could  go  he  could! 

This  was  to  treat  him  Uke  a  child.  Of  course  he 
could  go  up  this  rotten  mountain.  It  was  because 
she  did  not  care  enough  to  take  him!  She  did  not 
think  him  man  enough !  Did  she  think  that  he  could 
not  climb  what — her  husband — could?  And  if  it 
were  dangerous  she  ought  not  to  be  going,  leaving 
him  behind — that  was  simply  cruel!  But  she  only 
smiled,  and  he  flung  away  from  her,  not  having 
seen  that  all  this  grief  of  his  only  made  her  happy. 
And  that  afternoon  they  went  o£f  without  him. 
What  deep,  dark  thoughts  he  had  then !  What  pas- 
sionate hatred  of  his  own  youth!  What  schemes  he 
wove,  by  which  she  might  come  back,  and  find  him 
gone — up  some  mountain  far  more  dangerous  and 
fatiguing!  If  people  did  not  think  him  fit  to  chmb 
with,  he  would  climb  by  himself.  That,  anyway, 
everyone  admitted,  was  dangerous.  And  it  would 
be  her  fault.  She  would  be  sorry  then.  He  would 
get  up,  and  be  off  before  dawn;  he  put  his  things 
out  ready,  and  filled  his  flask.  The  moonlight  that 
evening  was  more  wonderful  than  ever,  the  moun- 
tains like  great  ghosts  of  themselves.  And  she  was 
up  there  at  the  hut,  among  them!  It  was  very  long 
before  he  went  to  sleep,  brooding  over  his  injuries 
— intending  not  to  sleep  at  all,  so  as  to  be  ready  to 
be  off  at  three  o'clock.  At  nine  o'clock  he  woke. 
His  wrath  was  gone;  he  only  felt  restless  and 
ashamed.  If,  instead  of  flying  out,  he  had  made 
the  best  of  it,  he  could  have  gone  with  them  as  far 


42  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

as  the  hut,  could  have  stayed  the  night  there.  And 
now  he  cursed  himself  for  being  such  a  fool  and 
idiot.  Some  Httle  of  that  idiocy  he  could,  perhaps, 
retrieve.  If  he  started  for  the  hut  at  once,  he  might 
still  be  in  time  to  meet  them  coming  down,  and  ac- 
company them  home.  He  swallowed  his  coffee,  and 
set  off.  He  knew  the  way  at  first,  then  in  woods 
lost  it,  recovered  the  right  track  again  at  last,  but 
did  not  reach  the  hut  till  nearly  two  o'clock.  Yes, 
the  party  had  made  the  ascent  that  morning — they 
had  been  seen,  been  heard  jodelling  on  the  top. 
Geii'iss!  Gewiss!  But  they  would  not  come  down 
the  same  way.  Oh,  no!  They  would  be  going 
home  down  to  the  West  and  over  the  other  pass. 
They  would  be  back  in  house  before  the  young  Herr 
himself. 

He  heard  this,  oddly,  almost  with  relief.  Was  it 
the  long  walk  alone,  or  being  up  there  so  high?  Or 
simply  that  he  was  very  hungry?  Or  just  these  nice 
friendly  folk  in  the  hut,  and  their  young  daughter 
with  her  fresh  face,  queer  little  black  cloth  sailor  hat 
with  long  ribbons,  velvet  bodice,  and  perfect  simple 
maimers;  or  the  sight  of  the  little  silvery-dun  cows, 
thrusting  their  broad  black  noses  against  her  hand? 
What  was  it  that  had  taken  away  from  him  all  his 
restless  feeling,  made  him  happy  and  content?  .  .  . 
He  did  not  know  that  the  newest  thing  always  fas- 
cinates the  puppy  in  its  gambols !  .  .  .  He  sat  a  long 
while  after  lunch,  trying  to  draw  the  little  cows, 
watching  the  sun  on  the  cheek  of  that  pretty  maiden, 
trying  to  talk  to  her  in  German.     And  when  at  last 


SPRING  43 

he  said:  "Adieu!"  and  she  murmured  "Kiiss  die 
Hand.  Adieu!  ^^  there  was  quite  a  Httle  pang  in  his 
heart.  .  .  .  Wonderful  and  queer  is  the  heart  of  a 
man!  .  .  .  For  all  that,  as  he  neared  home  he  ha- 
stened, till  he  was  actually  running.  Why  had  he 
stayed  so  long  up  there?  She  would  be  back — she 
would  expect  to  see  him;  and  that  young  beast  of 
a  vioHnist  would  be  with  her,  perhaps,  instead !  He 
reached  the  hotel  just  in  time  to  rush  up  and  dress, 
and  rush  down  to  dinner.  Ah!  They  were  tired, 
no  doubt — were  resting  in  their  rooms.  He  sat 
through  dinner  as  best  he  could;  got  away  before 
dessert,  and  flew,  upstairs.  For  a  minute  he  stood 
there  doubtful;  on  which  door  should  he  knock? 
Then  timidly  he  tapped  on  hers.  No  answer!  He 
knocked  loud  on  his  tutor's  door.  No  answer! 
They  were  not  back,  then.  Not  back?  What  could 
that  mean?  Or  could  it  be  that  they  were  both 
asleep?  Once  more  he  knocked  on  her  door;  then 
desperately  turned  the  handle,  and  took  a  flying 
glance.  Empty,  tidy,  untouched!  Not  back!  He 
turned  and  ran  downstairs  again.  All  the  guests 
were  streaming  out  from  dinner,  and  he  became  en- 
tangled with  a  group  of  'English  Grundys'  discuss- 
ing a  climbing  accident  which  had  occurred  in  Swit- 
zerland. He  listened,  feeling  suddenly  quite  sick. 
One  of  them,  the  short  grey-bearded  Grundy  with 
the  rather  whispering  voice,  said  to  him:  "All  alone 
again  to-night?  The  Stormers  not  back?"  Lennan 
did  his  best  to  answer,  but  something  had  closed 
his  throat;   he  could  only  shake  his  head. 


44  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

"They  had  a  guide,  I  think?"  said  the  'Enghsh 
Grundy.' 

This  time  Lennan  managed  to  get  out:  "Yes, 
sir." 

"Stormer,  I  fancy,  is  quite  an  expert!"  and  turn- 
ing to  the  lady  whom  the  young  '  Grundys '  addressed 
as  'Madre'  he  added: 

"To  me  the  great  charm  of  mountain-cHmbing 
was  always  the  freedom  from  people — the  remote- 
ness." 

The  mother  of  the  young  'Grundys,'  looking  at 
Lennan  with  her  half-closed  eyes,  answered: 

"That,  to  me,  would  be  the  disadvantage;  I  al- 
ways like  to  be  mixing  with  my  own  kind." 

The  grey-bearded  '  Grundy '  murmured  in  a  muf- 
fled voice : 

"Dangerous  thing,  that,  to  say — in  an  hotel!" 

And  they  went  on  talking,  but  of  what  Lennan 
no  longer  knew,  lost  in  this  sudden  feeling  of  sick 
fear.  In  the  presence  of  these  'English  Grundys,' 
so  superior  to  all  vulgar  sensations,  he  could  not 
give  vent  to  his  alarm;  already  they  viewed  him  as 
unsound  for  having  fainted.  Then  he  grasped  that 
there  had  begun  all  round  him  a  sort  of  luxurious 
speculation  on  what  might  have  happened  to  the 
Stormers.  The  descent  was  very  nasty;  there  was 
a  particularly  bad  traverse.  The  'Grundy,'  whose 
collar  was  not  now  crumpled,  said  he  did  not  believe 
in  women  chmbing.  It  was  one  of  the  signs  of  the 
times  that  he  most  deplored.  The  mother  of  the 
young  'Grundys'  countered  him  at  once:    In  prac- 


SPRING  45 

tice  she  agreed  that  they  were  out  of  place,  but 
theoretically  she  could  not  see  why  they  should 
not  cHmb.  An  American  standing  near  threw  all 
into  confusion  by  saying  he  guessed  that  it  might 
be  liable  to  develop  their  understandings.  Lennan 
made  for  the  front  door.  The  moon  had  just  come 
up  over  in  the  South,  and  exactly  under  it  he  could 
see  their  mountain.  What  visions  he  had  then! 
He  saw  her  lying  dead,  saw  himself  cHmbing  down 
in  the  moonlight  and  raising  her  still-living,  but  half- 
frozen,  form  from  some  perilous  ledge.  Even  that 
was  almost  better  than  this  actuality  of  not  know- 
ing where  she  was,  or  what  had  happened.  People 
passed  out  into  the  moonlight,  looking  curiously  at 
his  set  face  staring  so  fixedly.  One  or  two  asked 
him  if  he  were  anxious,  and  he  answered:  "Oh  no, 
thanks!"  Soon  there  would  have  to  be  a  search 
party.  How  soon?  He  would,  he  must  be,  of  it! 
They  should  not  stop  him  this  time.  And  suddenly 
he  thought:  Ah,  it  is  all  because  I  stayed  up  there 
this  afternoon  talking  to  that  girl,  all  because  I  for- 
got her! 

And  then  he  heard  a  stir  behind  him.  There  they 
were,  coming  down  the  passage  from  a  side  door 
— she  in  front  with  her  alpenstock  and  rucksack 
— smiling.  Instinctively  he  recoiled  behind  some 
plants.  They  passed.  Her  sunburned  face,  with 
its  high  check-bones  and  its  deep-set  eyes,  looked  so 
happy;  smiHng,  tired,  triumphant.  Somehow  he 
could  not  bear  it,  and  when  they  were  gone  by  he 
stole  out  into  the  wood  and  threw  himself  down  in 


46  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

shadow,  burying  his  face,  and  choking  back  a  hor- 
rible dry  sobbing  that  would  keep  rising  in  his  throat. 


DC 

Next  day  he  was  happy;  for  all  the  afternoon  he 
lay  out  in  the  shade  of  that  same  wood  at  her  feet, 
gazing  up  through  larch-boughs.  It  was  so  wonder- 
ful, with  nobody  but  Nature  near.  Nature  so  ahye, 
and  busy,  and  so  big! 

Coming  down  from  the  hut  the  day  before,  he 
had  seen  a  peak  that  looked  exactly  like  the  figure 
of  a  woman  with  a  garment  over  her  head,  the  big- 
gest statue  in  the  world;  from  further  down  it  had 
become  the  figure  of  a  bearded  man,  with  his  arm 
bent  over  his  eyes.  Had  she  seen  it?  Had  she  no- 
ticed how  all  the  mountains  in  moonlight  or  very 
early  morning  took  the  shape  of  beasts?  What  he 
wanted  most  in  hfe  was  to  be  able  to  make  images 
of  beasts  and  creatures  of  all  sorts,  that  were  like — 
that  had — that  gave  out  the  spirit  of — Nature;  so 
that  by  just  looking  at  them  one  could  have  all 
those  jolly  feelings  one  had  when  one  was  watching 
trees,  and  beasts,  and  rocks,  and  even  some  sorts 
of  men — but  not  'English  Grundys.' 

So  he  was  quite  determined  to  study  Art? 

Oh  yes,  of  course! 

He  would  want  to  leave — Oxford,  then! 

No,  oh  no!    Only  some  day  he  would  have  to. 

She  answered:   "Some  never  get  away!" 


SPRING  47 

And  he  said  quickly:  "Of  course,  I  shall  never 
want  to  leave  Oxford  while  you  are  there." 

He  heard  her  draw  her  breath  in  sharply. 

"Oh  yes,  you  will!  Now  help  me  up!"  And  she 
led  the  way  back  to  the  hotel. 

He  stayed  out  on  the  terrace  when  she  had  gone 
in,  restless  and  unhappy  the  moment  he  was  away 
from  her.     A  voice  close  by  said: 

"Well,  friend  Lennan — brown  study,  or  blue 
devils,  which?" 

There,  in  one  of  those  high  wicker  chairs  that  in- 
sulate their  occupants  from  the  world,  he  saw  his 
tutor  leaning  back,  head  a  little  to  one  side,  and 
tips  of  fingers  pressed  together.  He  looked  like  an 
idol  sitting  there  inert,  and  yet — yesterday  he  had 
gone  up  that  mountain! 

"Cheer  up!  You  will  break  your  neck  yet! 
When  I  was  your  age,  I  remember  feeling  it  deeply 
that  I  was  not  allowed  to  risk  the  lives  of  others." 

Lennan  stammered  out: 

"I  didn't  think  of  that;  but  I  thought  where  Mrs. 
Stormer  could  go,  I  could." 

"Ah!  For  all  our  admiration  we  cannot  quite 
admit — can  we,  when  it  comes  to  the  point?" 

The  boy's  loyalty  broke  into  flame: 

"It's  not  that.  I  think  Mrs.  Stormer  as  good  as 
any  man — only — only " 

"Not  quite  so  good  as  you,  eh?" 

"A  hundred  times  better,  sir." 

Stormer  smiled.     Ironic  beast! 

"Lennan,"  he  said,  "distrust  hyperbole." 


48  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

"Of  course,  I  know  I'm  no  good  at  climbing," 
the  boy  broke  out  again;  "but — but — I  thought 
where  she  was  allowed  to  risk  her  Hfe,  I  ought  to 
be!" 

"Good!  I  Hke  that."  It  was  said  so  entirely 
without  irony  for  once,  that  the  boy  was  discon- 
certed. 

"You  are  young.  Brother  Lennan,"  his  tutor  went 
on.  "Now,  at  what  age  do  you  consider  men  de- 
velop discretion?  Because,  there  is  just  one  thing 
always  worth  remembering — women  have  none  of 
that  better  part  of  valour." 

"I  think  women  are  the  best  things  in  the  world," 
the  boy  blurted  out. 

"May  you  long  have  that  opinion!"  His  tutor 
had  risen,  and  was  ironically  surveying  his  knees. 
"A  bit  stiff!"  he  said.  "Let  me  know  when  you 
change  your  views!" 

"I  never  shall,  sir." 

"Ah,  ah!  Never  is  a  long  word,  Lennan.  I  am 
going  to  have  some  tea";  and  gingerly  he  walked 
away,  quizzing,  as  it  were,  with  a  smile,  his  pwn 
stiffness. 

Lennan  remained  where  he  was,  with  burning 
cheeks.  His  tutor's  words  again  had  seemed  di- 
rected against  her.  How  could  a  man  say  such 
things  about  women!  If  they  were  true,  he  did  not 
want  to  know;  if  they  were  not  true,  it  was  wicked 
to  say  them.  It  must  be  awful  never  to  have 
generous  feelings;  always  to  have  to  be  satirical. 
Dreadful  to  be  like  the  'English  Grundys';    only 


SPRING  49 

different,  of  course,  because,  after  all,  old  Stormer 
was  much  more  interesting  and  intelligent — ever  so 
much  more;  only,  just  as  'superior.'  "Some  never 
get  away!"  Had  she  meant — from  that  superior- 
ity? Just  down  below  were  a  family  of  peasants 
scything  and  gathering  in  the  grass.  One  could 
imagine  her  doing  that,  and  looking  beautiful,  with 
a  coloured  handkerchief  over  her  head;  one  could 
imagine  her  doing  anything  simple — one  could  not 
imagine  old  Stormer  doing  anything  but  what  he 
did  do.  And  suddenly  the  boy  felt  miserable,  op- 
pressed by  these  dim  glimmerings  of  lives  misplaced. 
And  he  resolved  that  he  would  not  be  like  Stormer 
when  he  was  old!  No,  he  would  rather  be  a  regu- 
lar beast  than  be  like  that!  .  .  . 

When  he  went  to  his  room  to  change  for  dinner 
he  saw  in  a  glass  of  water  a  large  clove  carnation. 
Who  had  put  it  there?  Who  could  have  put  it  there 
— but  she?  It  had  the  same  scent  as  the  mountain 
pinks  she  had  dropped  over  him,  but  deeper,  richer 
— a  scent  moving,  dark,  and  sweet.  He  put  his  lips 
to  it  before  he  pinned  it  into  his  coat. 

There  was  dancing  again  that  night — more  couples 
this  time,  and  a  violin  beside  the  piano;  and  she  had 
on  a  black  frock.  He  had  never  seen  her  in  black. 
Her  face  and  neck  were  powdered  over  their  sun- 
burn. The  first  sight  of  that  powder  gave  him  a 
faint  shock.  He  had  not  somehow  thought  that 
ladies  ever  put  on  powder.  But  if  she  did — then  it 
must  be  right!  And  his  eyes  never  left  her.  He 
saw  the  young  German  violinist  hovering  round  her, 


so  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

even  dancing  with  her  twice;  watched  her  dancing 
with  others,  but  all  without  jealousy,  without  troub- 
ling; all  in  a  sort  of  dream.  What  was  it?  Had 
he  been  bewitched  into  that  queer  state,  bewitched 
by  the  gift  of  that  flower  in  his  coat?  What  was 
it,  when  he  danced  with  her,  that  kept  him  happy 
in  her  silence  and  his  own?  There  was  no  expecta- 
tion in  him  of  anything  that  she  would  say,  or  do 
— no  expectation,  no  desire.  Even  when  he  wan- 
dered out  with  her  on  to  the  terrace,  even  when 
they  went  down  the  bank  and  sat  on  a  bench  above 
the  fields  where  the  peasants  had  been  scything, 
he  had  still  no  feehng  but  that  quiet,  dreamy  ado- 
ration. The  night  was  black  and  dreamy  too,  for 
the  moon  was  still  well  down  behind  the  mountains. 
The  little  band  was  playing  the  next  waltz;  but  he 
sat,  not  moving,  not  thinking,  as  if  all  power  of  ac- 
tion and  thought  had  been  stolen  out  of  him.  And 
the  scent  of  the  flower  in  his  coat  rose,  for  there  was 
no  wind.  Suddenly  his  heart  stopped  beating.  She 
had  leaned  against  him,  he  felt  her  shoulder  press 
his  arm,  her  hair  touch  his  cheek.  He  closed  his 
eyes  then,  and  turned  his  face  to  her.  He  felt  her 
lips  press  his  mouth  with  a  swift,  burning  kiss.  He 
sighed,  stretched  out  his  arms.  There  was  nothing 
there  but  air.  The  rustle  of  her  dress  against  the 
grass  was  all!    The  flower — it,  too,  was  gone. 


SPRING  51 

X 

Not  one  minute  all  that  night  did  Anna  sleep. 
Was  it  remorse  that  kept  her  awake,  or  the  intoxi- 
cation of  memory?  If  she  felt  that  her  kiss  had 
been  a  crime,  it  was  not  against  her  husband  or  her- 
self, but  against  the  boy — the  murder  of  illusion,  of 
something  sacred.  But  she  could  not  help  feeling 
a  delirious  happiness  too,  and  the  thought  of  trying 
to  annul  what  she  had  done  did  not  even  occur  to 
her. 

He  was  ready,  then,  to  give  her  a  little  love! 
Ever  so  little,  compared  to  hers,  but  still  a  little! 
There  could  be  no  other  meaning  to  that  movement 
of  his  face  with  the  closed  eyes,  as  if  he  would  nestle 
it  down  on  her  breast. 

Was  she  ashamed  of  her  little  manoeuvres  of  these 
last  few  days — ashamed  of  having  smiled  at  the 
young  violinist,  of  that  late  return  from  the  moun- 
tain climb,  of  the  flower  she  had  given  him,  of  all 
the  conscious  siege  she  had  laid  since  the  evening 
her  husband  came  in  and  sat  watching  her,  without 
knowing  that  she  saw  him?  No ;  not  really  ashamed ! 
Her  remorse  rose  only  from  the  kiss.  It  hurt  to 
think  of  that,  because  it  was  death,  the  final  extinc- 
tion of  the  mother-feeling  in  her;  the  awakening 
of — who  knew  what — in  the  boy!  For  if  she  was 
mysterious  to  him,  what  was  he  not  to  her,  with  his 
eagerness,  and  his  dreaminess,  his  youthful  warmth, 
his  innocence!     What  if  it  had  killed  in  him  trust, 


52  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

brushed  off  the  dew,  tumbled  a  star  down?  Could 
she  forgive  herself  for  that?  Could  she  bear  it  if 
she  were  to  make  him  Hke  so  many  other  boys,  like 
that  young  violinist;  just  a  cynical  youth,  looking 
on  women  as  what  they  called  'fair  game'?  But 
could  she  make  him  into  such — would  he  ever  grow 
like  that?  Oh!  surely  not;  or  she  would  not  have 
loved  him  from  the  moment  she  first  set  eyes  on 
him  and  spoke  of  him  as  'an  angel.' 

After  that  kiss — that  crime,  if  it  were  one — in 
the  dark  she  had  not  known  what  he  had  done, 
where  gone — perhaps  wandering,  perhaps  straight 
up  to  his  room.  Why  had  she  refrained,  left  him 
there,  vanished  out  of  his  arms?  This  she  herself 
hardly  understood.  Not  shame;  not  fear;  rever- 
ence perhaps — for  what?  For  love — for  the  illusion, 
the  mystery,  all  that  made  love  beautiful;  for  youth, 
and  the  poetry  of  it;  just  for  the  sake  of  the  black 
still  night  itself,  and  the  scent  of  that  flower — dark 
flower  of  passion  that  had  won  him  to  her,  and  that 
she  had  stolen  back,  and  now  wore  all  night  long 
close  to  her  neck,  and  in  the  morning  placed  with- 
ered within  her  dress.  She  had  been  starved  so  long, 
and  so  long  waited  for  that  moment — it  was  little 
wonder  if  she  did  not  clearly  know  why  she  had 
done  just  this,  and  not  that! 

And  now  how  should  she  meet  him,  how  first  look 
into  his  eyes?  Would  they  have  changed?  Would 
they  no  longer  have  the  straight  look  she  so  loved? 
It  would  be  for  her  to  lead,  to  make  the  future. 
And  she  kept  saying  to  herself:   I  am  not  going  to 


SPRING  53 

be  afraid.  It  is  done.  I  will  take  what  life  offers! 
Of  her  husband  she  did  not  think  at  all. 

But  the  first  moment  she  saw  the  boy,  she  knew 
that  something  from  outside,  and  untoward,  had 
happened  since  that  kiss.  He  came  up  to  her,  in- 
deed, but  he  said  nothing,  stood  trembling  all  over 
and  handed  her  a  telegram  that  contained  these 
words:  "Come  back  at  once  Wedding  immediate 
Expect  you  day  after  to-morrow.  Cicely."  The 
words  grew  indistinct  even  as  she  read  them,  and 
the  boy's  face  all  blurred.  Then,  making  an  effort, 
she  said  quietly: 

"Of  course,  you  must  go.  You  cannot  miss  your 
only  sister's  wedding." 

Without  protest  he  looked  at  her;  and  she  could 
hardly  bear  that  look — it  seemed  to  know  so  little, 
and  ask  so  much.  She  said:  "It  is  nothing — only 
a  few  days.  You  will  come  back,  or  we  will  come 
to  you." 

His  face  brightened  at  once. 

"Will  you  really  come  to  us  soon,  at  once — if 

they    ask    you?     Then    I    don't    mind — I — I " 

And  then  he  stopped,  choking. 

She  said  again : 

"Ask  us.     We  will  come." 

He  seized  her  hand;  pressed  and  pressed  it  in 
both  his  own,  then  stroked  it  gently,  and  said: 

"Oh!     I'm  hurting  it!" 

She  laughed,  not  wishing  to  cry. 

In  a  few  minutes  he  would  have  to  start  to  catch 
the  only  train  that  would  get  him  home  in  time. 


54  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

She  went  and  helped  him  to  pack.  Her  heart  felt 
like  lead,  but,  not  able  to  bear  that  look  on  his  face 
again,  she  kept  cheerfully  talking  of  their  return, 
asking  about  his  home,  how  to  get  to  it,  speaking 
of  Oxford  and  next  term.  When  his  things  were 
ready  she  put  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  for  a 
moment  pressed  him  to  her.  Then  she  escaped. 
Looking  back  from  his  door,  she  saw  him  standing 
exactly  as  when  she  had  withdrawn  her  arms.  Her 
cheeks  were  wet;  she  dried  them  as  she  went  down- 
stairs. When  she  felt  herself  safe,  she  went  out  on 
the  terrace.  Her  husband  was  there,  and  she  said 
to  him: 

"Will  you  come  with  me  into  the  town?  I  want 
to  buy  some  things." 

He  raised  his  eyebrows,  smiled  dimly,  and  fol- 
lowed her.  They  walked  slowly  down  the  hill  into 
the  long  street  of  the  Uttle  town.  All  the  time  she 
talked  of  she  knew  not  what,  and  all  the  time  she 
thought:  His  carriage  will  pass — his  carriage  will 
pass! 

Several  carriages  went  jingling  by.  At  last  he 
came.  Sitting  there,  and  staring  straight  before 
him,  he  did  not  see  them.  She  heard  her  husband  say : 

"Hullo!  Where  is  our  young  friend  Lennan  off 
to,  with  his  luggage — looking  like  a  Hon  cub  in 
trouble?" 

She  answered  in  a  voice  that  she  tried  to  make 
clear  and  steady: 

"There  must  be  something  wrong;  or  else  it  is 
his  sister's  wedding." 


SPRING  55 

She  felt  that  her  husband  was  gazing  at  her,  and 
wondered  what  her  face  was  Hke;  but  at  that  mo- 
ment the  word  "Madre!"  sounded  close  in  her  ear 
and  they  were  surrounded  by  a  small  drove  of 
'English  Grundys.' 

XI 

That  twenty  mile  drive  was  perhaps  the  worst 
part  of  the  journey  for  the  boy.  It  is  always  hard 
to  sit  still  and  suffer. 

When  Anna  left  him  the  night  before,  he  had 
wandered  about  in  the  dark,  not  knowing  quite 
where  he  went.  Then  the  moon  came  up,  and  he 
found  himself  sitting  under  the  eave  of  a  barn  close 
to  a  chalet  where  all  was  dark  and  quiet;  and 
down  below  him  the  moon-whitened  valley  village 
— its  roofs  and  spires  and  little  glamorous  unreal 
lights. 

In  his  evening  suit,  his  dark  rufHed  hair  uncov- 
ered, he  would  have  made  a  quaint  spectacle  for 
the  owners  of  that  chalet,  if  they  had  chanced  to 
see  him  seated  on  the  hay-strewn  boards  against 
their  barn,  staring  before  him  with  such  wistful  rap- 
ture. But  they  were  folk  to  whom  sleep  was  pre- 
cious. .  .  . 

And  now  it  was  all  snatched  away  from  him,  rele- 
gated to  some  immensely  far-off  future.  Would  it 
indeed  be  possible  to  get  his  guardian  to  ask  them 
down  to  Hayle?  And  would  they  really  come?  His 
tutor  would  surely  never  care  to  visit  a  place  right 


56  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

away  in  the  country — far  from  books  and  every- 
thing! He  frowned,  thinking  of  his  tutor,  but  it 
was  with  perplexity — ^no  other  feeling.  And  yet,  if 
he  could  not  have  them  down  there,  how  could  he 
wait  the  two  whole  months  till  next  term  began! 
So  went  his  thoughts,  round  and  round,  while  the 
horses  jogged,  dragging  him  further  and  further 
from  her. 

It  was  better  in  the  train;  the  distraction  of  all 
the  strange  crowd  of  foreigners,  the  interest  of  new 
faces  and  new  country;  and  then  sleep — a  long 
night  of  it,  snoozed  up  in  his  corner,  thoroughly 
fagged  out.  And  next  day  more  niew  country,  more 
new  faces;  and  slowly,  his  mood  changing  from  ache 
and  bewilderment  to  a  sense  of  something  promised, 
delightful  to  look  forward  to.  Then  Calais  at  last, 
and  a  night-crossing  in  a  wet  little  steamer,  a  sum- 
mer gale  blowing  spray  in  his  face,  waves  leaping 
white  in  a  black  sea,  and  the  wild  sound  of  the  wind. 
On  again  to  London,  the  early  drive  across  the  town, 
still  sleepy  in  August  haze;  an  English  breakfast — 
porridge,  chops,  marmalade.  And,  at  last,  the  train 
for  home.  At  all  events  he  could  write  to  her,  and 
tearing  a  page  out  of  his  little  sketch-book,  he 
began : 

"I  am  writing  in  the  train,  so  please  forgive  this 
joggly  writing " 

Then  he  did  not  know  how  to  go  on,  for  all  that 
he  wanted  to  say  was  such  as  he  had  never  even 


SPRING  57 

dreamed  of  writing — things  about  his  feelings  which 
would  look  horrible  in  words;  besides,  he  must  not 
put  anything  that  might  not  be  read  by  anyone,  so 
what  was  there  to  say? 

"It  has  been  such  a  long  journey,"  he  wrote  at 
last,  "away  from  the  Tyrol;"  (he  did  not  dare  even 
to  put  "from  you,")  "I  thought  it  would  never  end. 
But  at  last  it  has — very  nearly.  I  have  thought  a 
great  deal  about  the  Tyrol.  It  was  a  lovely  time — 
the  loveliest  time  I  have  ever  had.  And  now  it's 
over,  I  try  to  console  myself  by  thinking  of  the 
future,  but  not  the  immediate  future — that  is  not 
very  enjoyable.  I  wonder  how  the  mountains  are 
looking  to-day.  Please  give  my  love  to  them,  es- 
pecially the  lion  ones  that  come  and  lie  out  in  the 
moonlight — you  will  not  recognize  them  from  this" 
— then  followed  a  sketch.  "And  this  is  the  church 
we  went  to,  with  someone  kneeling.  And  this  is 
meant  for  the  'English  Grundys,'  looking  at  some- 
one who  is  coming  in  very  late  with  an  alpenstock 
— only,  I  am  better  at  the  'English  Grundys'  than 
at  the  person  with  the  alpenstock.  I  wish  I  were 
the  'EngHsh  Grundys'  now,  still  in  the  Tyrol.  I 
hope  I  shall  get  a  letter  from  you  soon;  and  that  it 
will  say  you  are  getting  ready  to  come  back.  My 
guardian  will  be  awfully  keen  for  you  to  come  and 
stay  with  us.  He  is  not  half  bad  when  you  know 
him,  and  there  will  be  his  sister,  Mrs.  Doone,  and 
her  daughter  left  there  after  the  wedding.  It  will 
be  simply  disgusting  if  you  and  Mr.  Stormer  don't 


58  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

come.     I  wish  I  could  write  all  I  feel  about  my  lovely 
time  in  the  Tyrol,  but  you  must  please  imagine  it." 

And  just  as  he  had  not  known  how  to  address  her, 
so  he  could  not  tell  how  to  subscribe  himself,  and 
only  put  "Mark  Lennan." 

He  posted  the  letter  at  Exeter,  where  he  had  some 
time  to  wait;  and  his  mind  moved  still  more  from 
past  to  future.  Now  that  he  was  nearing  home  he 
began  to  think  of  his  sister.  In  two  days  she  would 
be  gone  to  Italy;  he  would  not  see  her  again  for  a 
long  time,  and  a  whole  crowd  of  memories  began  to 
stretch  out  hands  to  him.  How  she  and  he  used  to 
walk  together  in  the  walled  garden,  and  on  the  sunk 
croquet  ground;  she  telling  him  stories,  her  arm 
round  his  neck,  because  she  was  two  years  older, 
and  taller  than  he  in  those  days.  Their  first  talk 
each  holidays,  when  he  came  back  to  her;  the  first 
tea — with  unlimited  jam — in  the  old  muUion-win- 
dowed,  flower-chintzed  schoolroom,  just  himself  and 
her  and  old  Tingle  (Miss  Tring,  the  ancient  govern- 
ess, whose  chaperonage  would  now  be  gone),  and 
sometimes  that  kid  Sylvia,  when  she  chanced  to  be 
staying  there  with  her  mother.  Cicely  had  always 
understood  him  when  he  explained  to  her  how  in- 
ferior school  was,  because  nobody  took  any  interest 
in  beasts  or  birds  except  to  kill  them;  or  in  drawing, 
or  making  things,  or  anything  decent.  They  would 
go  off  together,  rambling  along  the  river,  or  up  the 
park,  where  everything  looked  so  jolly  and  wild — 
the  ragged  oak-trees,  and  huge  boulders,  of  whose 


SPRING  59 

presence  old  Godden,  the  coachman,  had  said:  "I 
can't  think  but  what  these  ha'  been  washed  here 
by  the  Flood,  Mast'  Mark!"  These  and  a  thou- 
sand other  memories  beset  his  conscience  now.  And 
as  the  train  drew  closer  to  their  station,  he  eagerly 
made  ready  to  jump  out  and  greet  her.  There  was 
the  honeysuckle  full  out  along  the  paling  of  the 
platform  over  the  waiting-room;  wonderful,  this 
year — and  there  was  she,  standing  alone  on  the 
platform.  No,  it  was  not  Cicely!  He  got  out  with 
a  blank  sensation,  as  if  those  memories  had  played 
him  false.  It  was  a  girl,  indeed,  but  she  only  looked 
about  sixteen,  and  wore  a  sunbonnet  that  hid  her 
hair  and  half  her  face.  She  had  on  a  blue  frock, 
and  some  honeysuckle  in  her  waist-belt.  She  seemed 
to  be  smiling  at  him,  and  expecting  him  to  smile  at 
her;  and  so  he  did  smile.  She  came  up  to  him  then, 
and  said : 

"I'm  Sylvia." 

He  answered:  "Oh!  thanks  awfully — it  was  aw- 
fully good  of  you  to  come  and  meet  me." 

"Cicely's  so  busy.  It's  only  the  T-cart.  Have 
you  got  much  luggage?" 

She  took  up  his  hold-all,  and  he  took  it  from  her; 
she  took  his  bag,  and  he  took  it  from  her;  then  they 
went  out  to  the  T-cart.  A  small  groom  stood  there, 
holding  a  silver-roan  cob  with  a  black  mane  and 
black  swish  tail. 

She  said:  "D'you  mind  if  I  drive,  because  I'm 
learning." 

And  he  answered:  "Oh,  no!  rather  not." 


6o  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

She  got  up;  he  noticed  that  her  eyes  looked  quite 
excited.  Then  his  portmanteau  came  out  and  was 
deposited  with  the  other  things  behind;  and  he  got 
up  beside  her. 

She  said:   "Let  go,  Billy." 

The  roan  rushed  past  the  little  groom,  whose  top 
boots  seemed  to  twinkle  as  he  jumped  up  behind. 
They  whizzed  round  the  corner  from  the  station 
yard,  and  observing  that  her  mouth  was  just  a 
little  open  as  though  this  had  disconcerted  her,  he 
said: 

"He  pulls  a  bit." 

"Yes — but  isn't  he  perfectly  sweet?" 

"He  is  rather  decent." 

Ah!  when  she  came,  he  would  drive  her;  they 
would  go  off  alone  in  the  T-cart,  and  he  would 
show  her  all  the  country  round. 

He  was  re-awakened  by  the  words: 

"Oh!  I  know  he's  going  to  shy!"  At  once  there 
was  a  swerve.    The  roan  was  cantering. 

They  had  passed  a  pig. 

"Doesn't  he  look  lovely  now?  Ought  I  to  have 
whipped  him  when  he  shied?" 

"Rather  not." 

"Why?" 

"Because  horses  are  horses,  and  pigs  are  pigs; 
it's  natural  for  horses  to  shy  at  them." 
,     "Oh!" 

He  looked  up  at  her  then,  sidelong.  The  curve 
of  her  cheek  and  chin  looked  very  soft,  and  rather 
jolly. 


SPRING  6i 

"I  didn't  know  you,  you  know!"  he  said. 
"You've  grown  up  so  awfully." 

"I  knew  you  at  once.     Your  voice  is  still  furry." 

There  was  another  silence,  till  she  said: 

"He  does  pull,  rather — doesn't  he,  going  home?" 

"Shall  I  drive?" 

"Yes,  please." 

He  stood  up  and  took  the  reins,  and  she  slipped 
past  under  them  in  front  of  him;  her  hair  smelt  ex- 
actly like  hay,  as  she  was  softly  bumped  against  him. 

She  kept  regarding  him  steadily  with  very  blue 
eyes,  now  that  she  was  relieved  of  driving. 

"Cicely  was  afraid  you  weren't  coming,"  she  said 
suddenly.  "What  sort  of  people  are  those  old 
Stormers?" 

He  felt  himself  grow  very  red,  choked  something 
down,  and  answered: 

"It's  only  he  that's  old.  She's  not  more  than 
about  thirty-five." 

"That  wold." 

He  restrained  the  words:  "Of  course  it's  old  to  a 
kid  like  you!"  And,  instead,  he  looked  at  her. 
Was  she  exactly  a  kid?  She  seemed  quite  tall  (for 
a  girl)  and  not  very  thin,  and  there  was  something 
frank  and  soft  about  her  face,  and  as  if  she  wanted 
you  to  be  nice  to  her. 

"Is  she  very  pretty?" 

This  time  he  did  not  go  red,  such  was  the  disturb- 
ance that  question  made  in  him.  If  he  said:  "Yes," 
it  was  hke  letting  the  world  know  his  adoration; 
but  to  say  anything  less  would  be  horrible,  disloyal. 


62  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

So  he  did  say:  "Yes,"  listening  hard  to  the  tone  of 
his  own  voice. 

"  I  thought  she  was.     Do  you  like  her  very  much?  " 

Again  he  struggled  with  that  thing  in  his  throat, 
and  again  said:   "Yes." 

He  wanted  to  hate  this  girl,  yet  somehow  could 
not — she  looked  so  soft  and  confiding.  She  was 
staring  before  her  now,  her  lips  still  just  parted, 
so  evidently  that  had  not  been  because  of  Bolero's 
pulling;  they  were  pretty  all  the  same,  and  so  was 
her  short,  straight  little  nose,  and  her  chin,  and  she 
was  awfully  fair.  His  thoughts  flew  back  to  that 
other  face — so  splendid,  so  full  of  life.  Suddenly  he 
found  himself  unable  to  picture  it — for  the  first  time 
since  he  had  started  on  his  journey  it  would  not 
come  before  him. 

"Oh!    Look!" 

Her  hand  was  pulling  at  his  arm.  There  in  the 
field  over  the  hedge  a  buzzard  hawk  was  dropping 
like  a  stone. 

"Oh,  Mark!    Oh!    Oh!    It's  got  it!" 

She  was  covering  her  face  with  both  her  hands, 
and  the  hawk,  with  a  young  rabbit  in  its  claws,  was 
sailing  up  again.  It  looked  so  beautiful  that  he  did 
not  somehow  feel  sorry  for  the  rabbit;  but  he  wanted 
to  stroke  and  comfort  her,  and  said: 

"It's  all  right,  Sylvia;  it  really  is.  The  rabbit's 
dead  already,  you  know.     And  it's  quite  natural." 

She  took  her  hands  away  from  a  face  that  looked 
just  as  if  she  were  going  to  cry. 

"Poor  Httle  rabbit!     It  was  such  a  little  one!" 


SPRING  63 


XII 


On  the  afternoon  of  the  day  following  he  sat  in 
the  smoking-room  with  a  prayer  book  in  his  hand, 
and  a  frown  on  his  forehead,  reading  the  Marriage 
Service.  The  book  had  been  effectively  designed 
for  not  spoiling  the  figure  when  carried  in  a  pocket. 
But  this  did  not  matter,  for  even  if  he  could  have 
read  the  words,  he  would  not  have  known  what  they 
meant,  seeing  that  he  was  thinking  how  he  could 
make  a  certain  petition  to  a  certain  person  sitting 
just  behind  at  a  large  bureau  with  a  sliding  top, 
examining  artificial  flies. 

He  fixed  at  last  upon  this  form: 

"Gordy!"  (Why  Gordy  no  one  quite  knew  now 
— ^whether  because  his  name  was  George,  or  by  way 
of  corruption  from  Guardian.)  "When  Cis  is  gone 
it'll  be  rather  awful,  won't  it?" 

"Not  a  bit." 

Mr.  Heatherley  was  a  man  of  perhaps  sixty-four, 
if  indeed  guardians  have  ages,  and  like  a  doctor 
rather  than  a  squire;  his  face  square  and  pufi"y,  his 
eyes  always  half-closed,  and  his  curly  mouth  using 
bluntly  a  voice  of  that  refined  coarseness  peculiar 
to  people  of  old  family. 

"But  it  will,  you  know!" 

"Well,  supposin'  it  is?" 

"I  only  wondered  if  you'd  mind  asking  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Stormer  to  come  here  for  a  little — they  were 
awfully  kind  to  me  out  there." 


64  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

"Strange  man  and  woman!    My  dear  fellow!" 

"Mr.  Stormer  likes  fishing," 

"Does  he?    And  what  does  she  like?" 

Very  grateful  that  his  back  was  turned,  the  boy 
said: 

"I  don't  know — anything — she's  awfully  nice." 

"Ah!    Pretty?" 

He  answered  faintly: 

"I  don't  know  what  you  call  pretty,  Gordy." 

He  felt,  rather  than  saw,  his  guardian  scrutinizing 
him  with  those  half-closed  eyes  under  their  gouty 
lids. 

"All  right;  do  as  you  like.  Have  'em  here  and 
have  done  with  it,  by  all  means." 

Did  his  heart  jump?  Not  quite;  but  it  felt  warm 
and  happy,  and  he  said: 

"Thanks  awfully,  Gordy.  It's  most  frightfully 
decent  of  you,"  and  turned  again  to  the  Marriage 
Service.  He  could  make  out  some  of  it.  In  places 
it  seemed  to  him  fine,  and  in  other  places  queer. 
About  obeying,  for  instance.  If  you  loved  anybody, 
it  seemed  rotten  to  expect  them  to  obey  you.  If 
you  loved  them  and  they  loved  you,  there  couldn't 
ever  be  any  question  of  obeying,  because  you  would 
both  do  the  things  always  of  your  own  accord.  And 
if  they  didn't  love  you,  or  you  them,  then — oh!  then 
it  would  be  simply  too  disgusting  for  anything,  to 
go  on  living  with  a  person  you  didn't  love  or  who 
didn't  love  you.  But  of  course  she  didn't  love  his 
tutor.  Had  she  once?  Those  bright  doubting  eyes, 
that  studiously  satiric  mouth  came  very  clearly  up 


SPRING  65 

before  him.  You  could  not  love  them;  and  yet — 
he  was  really  very  decent.  A  feeling  as  of  pity, 
almost  of  affection,  rose  in  him  for  his  remote  tutor. 
It  was  queer  to  feel  so,  since  the  last  time  they  had 
talked  together  out  there,  on  the  terrace,  he  had  not 
felt  at  all  like  that. 

The  noise  of  the  bureau  top  sliding  down  aroused 
him;  Mr.  Heatherley  was  closing  in  the  remains  of 
the  artificial  flies.  That  meant  he  would  be  going 
out  to  fish.  And  the  moment  he  heard  the  door 
shut,  Mark  sprang  up,  slid  back  the  bureau  top,  and 
began  to  write  his  letter.     It  was  hard  work. 

"Dear  Mrs.  Stormer, 

"My  guardian  wishes  me  to  beg  you  and  Mr. 
Stormer  to  pay  us  a  visit  as  soon  as  you  come  back 
from  the  Tyrol.  Please  tell  Mr.  Stormer  that  only 
the  very  best  fishermen — hke  him — can  catch  our 
trout;  the  rest  catch  our  trees.  This  is  me  catch- 
ing our  trees  (here  followed  a  sketch).  My  sister  is 
going  to  be  married  to-morrow,  and  it  will  be  dis- 
gusting afterwards  unless  you  come.  So  do  come, 
please.  And  with  my  very  best  greetings, 
"lam, 

"Your  humble  servant, 
"M.  Lennan." 

When  he  had  stamped  this  production  and  dropped 
it  in  the  letter-box,  he  had  the  oddest  feeling,  as  if 
he  had  been  let  out  of  school;  a  desire  to  rush  about, 
to  frolic.     What  should  he  do?     Cis,  of  course,  would 


66  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

be  busy — they  were  all  busy  about  the  wedding. 
He  would  go  and  saddle  Bolero,  and  jump  him  in 
the  park;  or  should  he  go  down  along  the  river  and 
watch  the  jays?  Both  seemed  lonely  occupations. 
And  he  stood  in  the  window — dejected.  At  the  age 
of  five,  walking  with  his  nurse,  he  had  been  over- 
heard remarking:  "Nurse,  I  want  to  eat  a  biscuit 
— all  the  way  I  want  to  eat  a  biscuit!"  and  it  was 
still  rather  so  with  him  perhaps — all  the  way  he 
wanted  to  eat  a  biscuit.  He  bethought  him  then 
of  his  modelling,  and  went  out  to  the  httle  empty 
greenhouse  where  he  kept  his  masterpieces.  They 
seemed  to  him  now  quite  horrible — and  two  of  them, 
the  sheep  and  the  turkey,  he  marked  out  for  sum- 
mary destruction.  The  idea  occurred  to  him  that 
he  might  try  and  model  that  hawk  escaping  with 
the  little  rabbit;  but  when  he  tried,  no  nice  feeling 
came,  and  flinging  the  things  down  he  went  out. 
He  ran  along  the  unweeded  path  to  the  tennis 
ground — lawn  tennis  was  then  just  coming  in.  The 
grass  looked  very  rough.  But  then,  everything 
about  that  little  manor  house  was  left  rather  wild 
and  anyhow;  why,  nobody  quite  knew,  and  nobody 
seemed  to  mind.  He  stood  there  scrutinizing  the 
condition  of  the  ground.  A  sound  of  humming 
came  to  his  ears.  He  got  up  on  the  wall.  There 
was  Sylvia  sitting  in  the  field,  making  a  wreath  of 
honeysuckle.  He  stood  very  quiet  and  listened. 
She  looked  pretty — lost  in  her  tune.  Then  he  slid 
down  off  the  wall,  and  said  gently: 
"Hallo!" 


SPRING  67 

She  looked  round  at  him,  her  eyes  very  wide  open. 

"Your  voice  is  jolly,  Sylvia!" 

"Oh,  no!" 

"It  is.     Come  and  cUmb  a  tree!" 

"Where?" 

"In  the  park,  of  course." 

They  were  some  time  selecting  the  tree,  many 
being  too  easy  for  him,  and  many  too  hard  for  her; 
but  one  was  found  at  last,  an  oak  of  great  age,  and 
frequented  by  rooks.  Then,  insisting  that  she  must 
be  roped  to  him,  he  departed  to  the  house  for  some 
blind-cord.  The  climb  began  at  four  o'clock — 
named  by  him  the  ascent  of  the  Cimone  della  Pala. 
He  led  the  momentous  expedition,  taking  a  hitch 
of  the  blind-cord  round  a  branch  before  he  per- 
mitted her  to  move.  Two  or  three  times  he  was 
obliged  to  make  the  cord  fast  and  return  to  help 
her,  for  she  was  not  an  'expert';  her  arms  seemed 
soft,  and  she  was  inclined  to  straddle  instead  of 
trusting  to  one  foot.  But  at  last  they  were  settled, 
streaked  indeed  with  moss,  on  the  top  branch  but 
two.  They  rested  there,  silent,  listening  to  the 
rooks  soothing  an  outraged  dignity.  Save  for  this 
slowly  subsiding  demonstration  it  was  marvellously 
peaceful  and  remote  up  there,  half-way  to  a  blue 
sky  thinly  veiled  from  them  by  the  crinkled  brown- 
green  leaves.  The  peculiar  dry  mossy  smell  of  an 
oak-tree  was  disturbed  into  the  air  by  the  least 
motion  of  their  feet  or  hands  against  the  bark. 
They  could  hardly  see  the  ground,  and  all  around, 
other  gnarled  trees  barred  off  any  view. 


68  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

He  said: 

"If  we  stay  up  here  till  it's  dark  we  might  see 
owls." 

"  Oh,  no !    Owls  are  horrible ! " 

"What!  They're  lovely — especially  the  white 
ones." 

"I  can't  stand  their  eyes,  and  they  squeak  so 
when  they're  hunting." 

"Oh!  but  that's  so  jolly,  and  their  eyes  are  beau- 
tiful." 

"They're  always  catching  mice  and  little  chick- 
ens; all  sorts  of  Httle  things." 

"But  they  don't  mean  to;  they  only  want  them 
to  eat.  Don't  you  think  things  are  jolHest  at 
night?" 

She  slipped  her  arm  in  his. 

"No;  I  don't  like  the  dark." 

"Why  not?  It's  splendid — when  things  get  mys- 
terious."   He  dwelt  lovingly  on  that  word. 

"I  don't  like  mysterious  things.  They  frighten 
you." 

"Oh,  Sylvia!" 

"No,  I  like  early  morning — especially  in  spring, 
when  it's  beginning  to  get  leafy." 

"Well,  of  course." 

She  was  leaning  against  him,  for  safety,  just  a 
little;  and  stretching  out  his  arm,  he  took  good 
hold  of  the  branch  to  make  a  back  for  her.  There 
was  a  silence.    Then  he  said: 

"If  you  could  only  have  one  tree,  which  would 
you  have?" 


SPRING  69 

"Not  oaks.  Limes — no — birches.  Which  would 
you?" 

He  pondered.  There  were  so  many  trees  that 
were  perfect.  Birches  and  Hmes,  of  course;  but 
beeches  and  cypresses,  and  yews,  and  cedars,  and 
holm-oaks — almost,  and  plane-trees;  then  he  said 
suddenly : 

"Pines;  I  mean  the  big  ones  with  reddish  stems 
and  branches  pretty  high  up." 

"Why?" 

Again  he  pondered.  It  was  very  important  to 
explain  exactly  why;  his  feelings  about  everything 
were  concerned  in  this.  And  while  he  mused  she 
gazed  at  him,  as  if  surprised  to  see  anyone  think  so 
deeply.    At  last  he  said: 

"Because  they're  independent  and  dignified  and 
never  quite  cold,  and  their  branches  seem  to  brood, 
but  chiefly  because  the  ones  I  mean  are  generally 
out  of  the  common  where  you  find  them.  You 
know — just  one  or  two,  strong  and  dark,  standing 
out  against  the  sky." 

"They're  too  dark." 

It  occurred  to  him  suddenly  that  he  had  forgotten 
larches.  They,  of  course,  could  be  heavenly,  when 
you  lay  under  them  and  looked  up  at  the  sky,  as  he 
had  that  afternoon  out  there.   Then  he  heard  her  say : 

"If  I  could  only  have  one  flower,  I  should  have 
lilies  of  the  valley,  the  small  ones  that  grow  wild 
and  smell  so  jolly." 

He  had  a  swift  vision  of  another  flower,  dark — 
very  different,  and  was  silent. 


70  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

"What  would  you  have,  Mark?"  Her  voice 
sounded  a  httle  hurt.  "You  are  thinking  of  one, 
aren't  you?" 

He  said  honestly: 

"Yes,  I  am." 

"Which?" 

"It's  dark,  too;  you  wouldn't  care  for  it  a  bit." 

"How  d'you  know?" 

"A  clove  carnation." 

"But  I  do  like  it — only — not  very  much." 

He  nodded  solemnly, 

"I  knew  you  wouldn't." 

Then  a  silence  fell  between  them.  She  had  ceased 
to  lean  against  him,  and  he  missed  the  cosy  friend- 
liness of  it.  Now  that  their  voices  and  the  cawings 
of  the  rooks  had  ceased,  there  was  nothing  heard 
but  the  dry  rustle  of  the  leaves,  and  the  plaintive 
cry  of  a  buzzard  hawk  hunting  over  the  little  tor 
across  the  river.  There  were  nearly  always  two  up 
there,  quartering  the  sky.  To  the  boy  it  was  lovely, 
that  silence — like  Nature  talking  to  you — Nature 
always  talked  in  silences.  The  beasts,  the  birds, 
the  insects,  only  really  showed  themselves  when  you 
were  still;  you  had  to  be  awfully  quiet,  too,  for 
flowers  and  plants,  otherwise  you  couldn't  see  the 
real  jolly  separate  life  there  was  in  them.  Even  the 
boulders  down  there,  that  old  Godden  thought  had 
been  washed  up  by  the  Flood,  never  showed  you 
what  queer  shapes  they  had,  and  let  you  feel  close 
to  them,  unless  you  were  thinking  of  nothing  else. 
Sylvia,  after  all,  was  better  in  that  way  than  he  had 


SPRING  71 

expected.  She  could  keep  quiet  (he  had  thought 
girls  hopeless);  she  was  gentle,  and  it  was  rather 
jolly  to  watch  her.  Through  the  leaves  there  came 
the  faint  far  tinkle  of  the  tea-bell. 

She  said:  "We  must  get  down." 

It  was  much  too  jolly  to  go  in,  really.  But  if 
she  wanted  her  tea — girls  always  wanted  tea !  And, 
twisting  the  cord  carefully  round  the  branch,  he 
began  to  superintend  her  descent.  About  to  follow, 
he  heard  her  cry: 

"Oh,  Mark!  I'm  stuck— I'm  stuck!  I  can't 
reach  it  with  my  foot!  I'm  swinging!"  And  he 
saw  that  she  was  swinging  by  her  hands  and  the 
cord. 

"Let  go;  drop  on  to  the  branch  below — the  cord'll 
hold  you  straight  till  you  grab  the  trunk." 

Her  voice  mounted  piteously: 

"I  can't — I  really  can't — I  should  slip!" 

He  tied  the  cord,  and  shthered  hastily  to  the 
branch  below  her;  then,  bracing  himself  against  the 
trunk,  he  clutched  her  round  the  waist  and  knees; 
but  the  taut  cord  held  her  up,  and  she  would  not 
come  to  anchor.  He  could  not  hold  her  and  untie 
the  cord,  which  was  fast  round  her  waist.  If  he  let 
her  go  with  one  hand,  and  got  out  his  knife,  he 
would  never  be  able  to  cut  and  hold  her  at  the 
same  time.  For  a  moment  he  thought  he  had  bet- 
ter climb  up  again  and  slack  off  the  cord,  but  he 
could  see  by  her  face  that  she  was  getting  frightened ; 
he  could  feel  it  by  the  quivering  of  her  body. 

"If  I  heave  you  up,"  he  said,  "can  you  get  hold 


72  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

again  above?"  And,  without  waiting  for  an  answer, 
he  heaved.     She  caught  hold  frantically. 

"Hold  on  just  for  a  second." 

She  did  not  answer,  but  he  saw  that  her  face  had 
gone  very  white.  He  snatched  out  his  knife  and 
cut  the  cord.  She  clung  just  for  that  moment,  then 
came  loose  into  his  arms,  and  he  hauled  her  to  him 
against  the  trunk.  Safe  there,  she  buried  her  face 
on  his  shoulder.  He  began  to  murmur  to  her  and 
smooth  her  softly,  with  quite  a  feeling  of  its  being 
his  business  to  smooth  her  like  this,  to  protect  her. 
He  knew  she  was  crying,  but  she  let  no  soimd  es- 
cape, and  he  was  very  careful  not  to  show  that  he 
knew,  for  fear  she  should  feel  ashamed.  He  won- 
dered if  he  ought  to  kiss  her.  At  last  he  did,  on 
the  top  of  her  head,  very  gently.  Then  she  put  up 
her  face  and  said  she  was  a  beast.  And  he  kissed 
her  again  on  an  eyebrow. 

After  that  she  seemed  all  right,  and  very  gingerly 
they  descended  to  the  ground,  where  shadows  were 
beginning  to  lengthen  over  the  fern  and  the  sun  to 
slant  into  their  eyes. 

XIII 

The  night  after  the  wedding  the  boy  stood  at  the 
window  of  his  pleasant  attic  bedroom,  with  one  wall 
sloping,  and  a  faint  smell  of  mice.  He  was  tired 
and  excited,  and  his  brain,  full  of  pictures.  This 
was  his  first  wedding,  and  he  was  haunted  by  a 
vision  of  his  sister's  little  white  form,  and  her  face 


SPRING  73 

with  its  starry  eyes.  She  was  gone — his  no  more! 
How  fearful  the  Wedding  March  had  sounded  on 
that  organ — that  awful  old  wheezer;  and  the  ser- 
mon! One  didn't  want  to  hear  that  sort  of  thing 
when  one  felt  inchned  to  cry.  Even  Gordy  had 
looked  rather  boiled  when  he  was  giving  her  away. 
With  perfect  distinctness  he  could  still  see  the  group 
before  the  altar  rails,  just  as  if  he  had  not  been  a 
part  of  it  himself.  Cis  in  her  white,  Sylvia  in  fluffy 
grey;  his  impassive  brother-in-law's  tall  figure; 
Gordy  looking  queer  in  a  black  coat,  with  a  very 
yellow  face,  and  eyes  still  half-closed.  The  rotten 
part  of  it  all  had  been  that  you  wanted  to  be  just 
feeling,  and  you  had  to  be  thinking  of  the  ring,  and 
your  gloves,  and  whether  the  lowest  button  of  your 
white  waistcoat  was  properly  undone.  Girls  could 
do  both,  it  seemed — Cis  seemed  to  be  seeing  some- 
thing wonderful  all  the  time,  and  Sylvia  had  looked 
quite  holy.  He  himself  had  been  too  conscious  of 
the  rector's  voice,  and  the  sort  of  professional  man- 
ner with  which  he  did  it  all,  as  if  he  were  making 
up  a  prescription,  with  directions  how  to  take  it. 
And  yet  it  was  all  rather  beautiful  in  a  kind  of 
fashion,  every  face  turned  one  way,  and  a  tremen- 
dous hush — except  for  poor  old  Godden's  blowing 
of  his  nose  with  his  enormous  red  handkerchief; 
and  the  soft  darkness  up  in  the  roof,  and  down  in 
the  pews;  and  the  sunlight  brightening  the  South 
windows.  All  the  same,  it  would  have  been  much 
jollier  just  taking  hands  by  themselves  somewhere, 
and  saying  out  before  God  what  they  really  felt — 


74  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

because,  after  all,  God  was  everything,  everywhere, 
not  only  in  stuffy  churches.  That  was  how  he 
would  like  to  be  married,  out  of  doors  on  a  starry 
night  like  this,  when  everything  felt  wonderful  all 
round  you.  Surely  God  wasn't  half  as  small  as 
people  seemed  always  making  Him — a  sort  of  su- 
perior man  a  little  bigger  than  themselves!  Even 
the  very  most  beautiful  and  wonderful  and  awful 
things  one  could  imagine  or  make,  could  only  be 
just  nothing  to  a  God  who  had  a  temple  like  the 
night  out  there.  But  then  you  couldn't  be  married 
alone,  and  no  girl  would  ever  like  to  be  married 
without  rings  and  flowers  and  dresses,  and  words 
that  made  it  all  feel  small  and  cosy!  Cis  might 
have,  perhaps,  only  she  wouldn't,  because  of  not 
hurting  other  people's  feelings;  but  Sylvia — never 
— she  would  be  afraid.  Only,  of  course,  she  was 
young!  And  the  thread  of  his  thoughts  broke — 
and  scattered  like  beads  from  a  string. 

Leaning  out,  and  resting  his  chin  on  his  hands, 
he  drew  the  night  air  into  his  lungs.  Honeysuckle, 
or  was  it  the  scent  of  liHes  still?  The  stars  all  out, 
and  lots  of  owls  to-night — four  at  least.  What 
would  night  be  like  without  owls  and  stars?  But 
that  was  it — ^you  never  could  think  what  things 
would  be  like  if  they  weren't  just  what  and  where 
they  were.  You  never  knew  what  was  coming, 
either;  and  yet,  when  it  came,  it  seemed  as  if  noth- 
ing else  ever  could  have  come.  That  was  queer — 
you  could  do  anything  you  liked  until  you'd  done 
it,  but  when  you  hdd  done  it,  then  you  knew,  of 


SPRING  75 

course,  that  you  must  always  have  had  to  .  .  . 
What  was  that  hght,  below  and  to  the  left?  Whose 
room?  Old  Tingle's — no,  the  little  spare  room — 
Sylvia's!  She  must  be  awake,  then!  He  leaned  far 
out,  and  whispered  in  the  voice  she  had  said  was 
still  furry: 

"Sylvia!" 

The  light  flickered,  he  could  just  see  her  head 
appear,  with  hair  all  loose,  and  her  face  turning  up 
to  him.  He  could  only  half  see,  half  imagine  it, 
mysterious,  blurry;  and  he  whispered: 

"Isn't  this  jolly?" 

The  whisper  travelled  back: 

"Awfully." 

"Aren't  you  sleepy?" 

"No;  are  you?" 

"Not  a  bit.     D'you  hear  the  owls?" 

"Rather." 

"Doesn't  it  smell  good?" 

"Perfect.     Can  you  see  me? " 

"Only  just,  not  too  much.     Can  you?" 

"I  can't  see  your  nose.     Shall  I  get  the  candle?" 

"No — that'd  spoil  it.     What  are  you  sitting  on?" 

"The  window  sill." 

"It  doesn't  twist  your  neck,  does  it?" 

"No— o— only  a  little  bit." 

"Are  you  hungry?" 

"Yes." 

"Wait  half  a  shake.  I'll  let  down  some  chocolate 
in  my  big  bath  towel;  it'll  swing  along  to  you — 
reach  out." 


76  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

A  dim  white  arm  reached  out. 

"Catch!    I  say,  you  won't  get  cold?" 

"Rather  not." 

"It's  too  jolly  to  sleep,  isn't  it?" 

"Mark!" 

"Yes." 

"Which  star  is  yours?  Mine  is  the  white  one 
over  the  top  branch  of  the  big  sycamore,  from 
here." 

"Mine  is  that  twinkhng  red  one  over  the  summer 
house.    Sylvia!" 

"Yes." 

"Catch!" 

"Oh!  I  couldn't— what  was  it?" 

"Nothing." 

"No,  but  what  was  it?" 

"Only  my  star.     It's  caught  in  your  hair.'* 

"Oh!" 

"Listen!" 

Silence,  then,  until  her  awed  whisper  : 

"What?" 

And  his  floating  down,  dying  away: 

''Cave!'' 

What  had  stirred — some  window  opened?  Cau- 
tiously he  spied  along  the  face  of  the  dim  house. 
There  was  no  hght  anywhere,  nor  any  shifting  blur 
of  white  at  her  window  below.  All  was  dark,  re- 
mote— still  sweet  with  the  scent  of  something  jolly. 
And  then  he  saw  what  that  something  was.  All 
over  the  wall  below  his  window  white  jessamine  was 
in  flower — stars,  not  only  in  the  sky.    Perhaps  the 


SPRING  77 

sky  was  really  a  field  of  white  flowers;    and  God 
walked  there,  and  plucked  the  stars.  .  .  . 

The  next  morning  there  was  a  letter  on  his  plate 
when  he  came  down  to  breakfast.  He  couldn't 
open  it  with  Sylvia  on  one  side  of  him,  and  old 
Tingle  on  the  other.  Then  with  a  sort  of  anger  he 
did  open  it.  He  need  not  have  been  afraid.  It  was 
written  so  that  anyone  might  have  read;  it  told  of 
a  climb,  of  bad  weather,  said  they  were  coming 
home.  Was  he  relieved,  disturbed,  pleased  at  their 
coming  back,  or  only  uneasily  ashamed?  She  had 
not  got  his  second  letter  yet.  He  could  feel  old 
Tingle  looking  round  at  him  with  those  queer  sharp 
twinkling  eyes  of  hers,  and  Sylvia  regarding  him 
quite  frankly.  And  conscious  that  he  was  growing 
red,  he  said  to  himself:  'I  won't!'  And  did  not. 
In  three  days  they  would  be  at  Oxford.  Would 
they  come  on  here  at  once?  Old  Tingle  was  speak- 
ing. He  heard  Sylvia  answer:  "No,  I  don't  like 
'bopsies.'  They're  so  hard!"  It  was  their  old 
name  for  high  cheekbones.  Sylvia  certainly  had 
none,  her  cheeks  went  softly  up  to  her  eyes. 

"Do  you,  Mark?" 

He  said  slowly: 

"On  some  people." 

"People  who  have  them  are  strong-willed,  aren't 
they?" 

Was  she — Anna — strong-willed?  It  came  to  him 
that  he  did  not  know  at  all  what  she  was. 

When  breakfast  was  over  and  he  had  got  away 
to  his  old  greenhouse,  he  had  a  strange,  unhappy 


78  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

time.  He  was  a  beast,  he  had  not  been  thinking 
of  her  half  enough!  He  took  the  letter  out,  and 
frowned  at  it  horribly.  Why  could  he  not  feel  more? 
What  was  the  matter  with  him?  Why  was  he  such 
a  brute — not  to  be  thinking  of  her  day  and  night? 
For  long  he  stood,  disconsolate,  in  the  little  dark 
greenhouse  among  the  images  of  his  beasts,  the 
letter  in  his  hand. 

He  stole  out  presently,  and  got  down  to  the  river 
unobserved.  Comforting — that  crisp,  gentle  sound 
of  water;  ever  so  comforting  to  sit  on  a  stone,  very 
still,  and  wait  for  things  to  happen  round  you.  You 
lost  yourself  that  way,  just  became  branches,  and 
stones,  and  water,  and  birds,  and  sky.  You  did 
not  feel  such  a  beast.  Gordy  would  never  under- 
stand why  he  did  not  care  for  fishing — one  thing 
trying  to  catch  another — instead  of  watching  and 
understanding  what  things  were.  You  never  got  to 
the  end  of  looking  into  water,  or  grass  or  fern;  al- 
ways something  queer  and  new.  It  was  Uke  that, 
too,  with  yourself,  if  you  sat  down  and  looked  prop- 
erly— most  awfully  interesting  to  see  things  working 
in  your  mind. 

A  soft  rain  had  begun  to  fall,  hissing  gently  on 
the  leaves,  but  he  had  still  a  boy's  love  of  getting 
wet,  and  stayed  where  he  was,  on  the  stone.  Some 
people  saw  fairies  in  woods  and  down  in  water,  or 
said  they  did;  that  did  not  seem  to  him  much  fun. 
What  was  really  interesting  was  noticing  that  each 
thing  was  different  from  every  other  thing,  and  what 
made  it  so;    you  must  see  that  before  you  could 


SPRING  79 

draw  or  model  decently.  It  was  fascinating  to  see 
your  creatures  coming  out  with  shapes  of  their  very 
own;  they  did  that  without  your  understanding 
how.  But  this  vacation  he  was  no  good — couldn't 
draw  or  model  a  bit! 

A  jay  had  settled  about  forty  yards  away,  and 
remained  in  full  view,  attending  to  his  many-col- 
oured feathers.  Of  all  things,  birds  were  the  most 
fascinating!  He  watched  it  a  long  time,  and  when 
it  flew  on,  followed  it  over  the  high  wall  up  into 
the  park.  He  heard  the  lunch-bell  ring  in  the  far 
distance,  but  did  not  go  in.  So  long  as  he  was  out 
there  in  the  soft  rain  with  the  birds  and  trees  and 
other  creatures,  he  was  free  from  that  unhappy  feel- 
ing of  the  morning.  He  did  not  go  back  till  nearly 
seven,  properly  wet  through,  and  very  hungry. 

All  through  dinner  he  noticed  that  Sylvia  seemed 
to  be  watching  him,  as  if  wanting  to  ask  him  some- 
thing. She  looked  very  soft  in  her  white  frock, 
open  at  the  neck;  and  her  hair  almost  the  colour 
of  special  moonlight,  so  goldy-pale;  and  he  wanted 
her  to  understand  that  it  wasn't  a  bit  because  of 
her  that  he  had  been  out  alone  all  day.  After  din- 
ner, when  they  were  getting  the  table  ready  to  play 
*red  nines,'  he  did  murmur: 

"Did  you  sleep  last  night — after?" 

She  nodded  fervently  to  that. 

It  was  raining  really  hard  now,  swishing  and  drip- 
ping out  in  the  darkness,  and  he  whispered: 

"Our  stars  would  be  drowned  to-night." 

"Do  you  really  think  we  have  stars?" 


8o  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

"We  might.     But  mine's  safe,  of  course;    your 
hair  is  jolly,  Sylvia." 

She  gazed  at  him,  very  sweet  and  surprised. 


XIV 

Anna  did  not  receive  the  boy's  letter  in  the  Tyrol. 
It  followed  her  to  Oxford.  She  was  just  going  out 
when  it  came,  and  she  took  it  up  with  the  mingled 
beatitude  and  almost  sickening  tremor  that  a  lover 
feels  touching  the  loved  one's  letter.  She  would 
not  open  it  in  the  street,  but  carried  it  all  the  way 
to  the  garden  of  a  certain  College,  and  sat  down  to 
read  it  under  the  cedar-tree.  That  little  letter,  so 
short,  boyish,  and  dry,  transported  her  halfway  to 
heaven.  She  was  to  see  him  again  at  once,  not  to 
wait  weeks,  with  the  fear  that  he  would  quite  for- 
get her!  Her  husband  had  said  at  breakfast  that 
Oxford  without  'the  dear  young  clowns'  assuredly 
was  charming,  but  Oxford  '  full  of  tourists  and  other 
strange  bodies'  as  certainly  was  not.  Where  should 
they  go?  Thank  heaven,  the  letter  could  be  shown 
him!  For  all  that,  a  Httle  stab  of  pain  went  through 
her  that  there  was  not  one  word  which  made  it  un- 
suitable to  show.  Still,  she  was  happy.  Never  had 
her  favourite  College  garden  seemed  so  beautiful, 
with  each  tree  and  flower  so  cared  for,  and  the  very 
wind  excluded;  never  had  the  birds  seemed  so  tame 
and  friendly.  The  sun  shone  softly,  even  the  clouds 
were  luminous  and  joyful.     She  sat  a  long  time, 


SPRING  8i 

musing,  and  went  back  forgetting  all  she  had  come 
out  to  do.  Having  both  courage  and  decision,  she 
did  not  leave  the  letter  to  burn  a  hole  in  her  cor- 
sets, but  gave  it  to  her  husband  at  lunch,  looking 
him  in  the  face,  and  saying  carelessly: 

"Providence,  you  see,  answers  your  question." 
He  read  it,  raised  his  eyebrows,  smiled,  and,  with- 
out looking  up,  murmured: 

"You  wish  to  prosecute  this  romantic  episode?" 
Did  he  mean  anything — or  was  it  simply  his  way 
of  putting  things? 

"I  naturally  want  to  be  anywhere  but  here." 
"Perhaps  you  would  Uke  to  go  alone?" 
He  said  that,  of  course,  knowing  she  could  not 
say:   Yes.     And  she  answered  simply:   "No." 

"Then  let  us  both  go — on  Monday.  I  will  catch 
the  young  man's  trout;  thou  shalt  catch — h'm! — 
he  shall  catch —  What  is  it  he  catches — trees? 
Good!    That's  settled." 

And,  three  days  later,  without  another  word  ex- 
changed on  the  subject,  they  started. 

Was  she  grateful  to  him?  No.  Afraid  of  him? 
No.  Scornful  of  him?  Not  quite.  But  she  was 
afraid  of  herself,  horribly.  How  would  she  ever  be 
able  to  keep  herself  in  hand,  how  disguise  from 
these  people  that  she  loved  their  boy?  It  was  her 
desperate  mood  that  she  feared.  But  since  she  so 
much  wanted  all  the  best  for  him  that  life  could 
give,  surely  she  would  have  the  strength  to  do  noth- 
ing that  might  harm  him.  Yet  she  was  afraid. 
He  was  there  at  the  station  to  meet  them,  in 


82  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

riding  things  and  a  nice  rough  Norfolk  jacket  that 
she  did  not  recognize,  though  she  thought  she  knew 
his  clothes  by  heart;  and  as  the  train  came  slowly 
to  a  standstill  the  memory  of  her  last  moment  with 
him,  up  in  his  room  amid  the  luggage  that  she 
had  helped  to  pack,  very  nearly  overcame  her.  It 
seemed  so  hard  to  have  to  meet  him  coldly,  form- 
ally, to  have  to  wait — who  knew  how  long — for  a 
minute  with  him  alone!  And  he  was  so  poHte,  so 
beautifully  considerate,  with  all  the  manners  of  a 
host;  hoping  she  wasn't  tired,  hoping  Mr.  Stormer 
had  brought  his  fishing-rod,  though  they  had  lots, 
of  course,  they  could  lend  him;  hoping  the  weather 
would  be  fine;  hoping  that  they  wouldn't  mind  hav- 
ing to  drive  three  miles,  and  busying  himself  about 
their  luggage.  All  this  when  she  just  wanted  to 
take  him  in  her  arms  and  push  his  hair  back  from 
his  forehead,  and  look  at  him! 

He  did  not  drive  with  them— he  had  thought  they 
would  be  too  crowded— but  followed,  keeping  quite 
close  in  the  dust  to  point  out  the  scenery,  mounted 
on  a  'palfrey,'  as  her  husband  called  the  roan  with 
the  black  swish  tail. 

This  countryside,  so  rich  and  yet  a  little  wild, 
the  independent-looking  cottages,  the  old  dark  cosy 
manor-house,  all  was  very  new  to  one  used  to  Ox- 
ford, and  to  London,  and  to  little  else  of  England. 
And  all  was  delightful.  Even  Mark's  guardian 
seemed  to  her  delightful.  For  Gordy,  when  abso- 
lutely forced  to  face  an  unknown  woman,  could 
bring  to  the  encounter  a  certain  bluff  ingratiation. 


SPRING  83 

His  sister,  too,  Mrs.  Doone,  with  her  faded  gentle- 
ness, seemed  soothing. 

When  Anna  was  alone  in  her  room,  reached  by 
an  unexpected  little  stairway,  she  stood  looking  at 
its  carved  four-poster  bed  and  the  wide  lattice  win- 
dow with  chintz  curtains,  and  the  flowers  in  a  blue 
bowl.  Yes,  all  was  delightful.  And  yet!  What 
was  it?  What  had  she  missed?  Ah,  she  was  a  fool 
to  fret!  It  was  only  his  anxiety  that  they  should 
be  comfortable,  his  fear  that  he  might  betray  him- 
self. Out  there  those  last  few  days — his  eyes !  And 
now!  She  brooded  earnestly  over  what  dress  she 
should  put  on.  She,  who  tanned  so  quickly,  had 
almost  lost  her  sunburn  in  the  week  of  travelling 
and  Oxford.  To-day  her  eyes  looked  tired,  and  she 
was  pale.  She  was  not  going  to  disdain  anything 
that  might  help.  She  had  reached  thirty-six  last 
month,  and  he  would  be  nineteen  to-morrow!  She 
decided  on  black.  In  black  she  knew  that  her  neck 
looked  whiter,  and  the  colour  of  her  eyes  and  hair 
stranger.  She  put  on  no  jewellery,  did  not  even 
pin  a  rose  at  her  breast,  took  white  gloves.  Since 
her  husband  did  not  come  to  her  room,  she  went 
up  the  Httle  stairway  to  his.  She  surprised  him 
ready  dressed,  standing  by  the  fireplace,  smiling 
faintly.  What  was  he  thinking  of,  standing  there 
with  that  smile?    Was  there  blood  in  him  at  all? 

He  inclined  his  head  slightly  and  said: 

"Good!  Chaste  as  the  night!  Black  suits  you. 
Shall  we  find  our  way  down  to  these  savage  halls?" 

And  they  went  down. 


84  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

Everyone  was  already  there,  waiting.  A  single 
neighbouring  squire  and  magistrate,  by  name  Tru- 
sham,  had  been  bidden,  to  make  numbers  equal. 

Dinner  was  announced;  they  went  in.  At  the 
round  table  in  a  dining-room,  all  black  oak,  with 
many  candles,  and  terrible  portraits  of  departed 
ancestors,  Anna  sat  between  the  magistrate  and 
Gordy.  Mark  was  opposite,  between  a  quaint- 
looking  old  lady  and  a  young  girl  who  had  not  been 
introduced,  a  girl  in  white,  with  very  fair  hair  and 
very  white  skin,  blue  eyes,  and  hps  a  Httle  parted; 
a  daughter  evidently  of  the  faded  Mrs.  Doone.  A 
girl  like  a  silvery  moth,  like  a  forget-me-not!  Anna 
found  it  hard  to  take  her  eyes  away  from  this  girl's 
face;  not  that  she  admired  her  exactly;  pretty  she 
was — yes;  but  weak,  with  those  parted  lips  and 
soft  chin,  and  almost  wistful  look,  as  if  her  deep- 
blue  half -eager  eyes  were  in  spite  of  her.  But  she 
was  young — so  young !  That  was  why  not  to  watch 
her  seemed  impossible.  " Sylvia  Doone? "  Indeed! 
Yes.  A  soft  name,  a  pretty  name — and  very  like 
her!  Every  time  her  eyes  could  travel  away  from 
her  duty  to  Squire  Trusham,  and  to  Gordy  (on 
both  of  whom  she  was  clearly  making  an  impres- 
sion), she  gazed  at  this  girl,  sitting  there  by  the 
boy,  and  whenever  those  two  young  things  smiled 
and  spoke  together  she  felt  her  heart  contract  and 
hurt  her.  Was  this  why  that  something  had  gone 
out  of  his  eyes?  Ah,  she  was  foohsh!  If  every  girl 
or  woman  the  boy  knew  was  to  cause  such  a  feehng 
in  her,  what  would  life  be  Hke?    And  her  will  hard- 


SPRING  85 

ened  against  her  fears.  She  was  looking  briUiant 
herself;  and  she  saw  that  the  girl  in  her  turn  could 
not  help  gazing  at  her  eagerly,  wistfully,  a  Httle  be- 
wildered— hatefully  young.  And  the  boy?  Slowly, 
surely,  as  a  magnet  draws,  Anna  could  feel  that  she 
was  drawing  him,  could  see  him  stealing  chances  to 
look  at  her.  Once  she  surprised  him  full.  What 
troubled  eyes!  It  was  not  the  old  adoring  face; 
yet  she  knew  from  its  expression  that  she  could 
make  him  want  her — make  him  jealous — easily  fire 
him  with  her  kisses,  if  she  would. 

And  the  dinner  wore  to  an  end.  Then  came  the 
moment  when  the  girl  and  she  must  meet  under  the 
eyes  of  the  mother,  and  that  sharp,  quaint-looking 
old  governess.  It  would  be  a  hard  moment,  that! 
And  it  came — a  hard  moment  and  a  long  one,  for 
Gordy  sat  full  span  over  his  wine.  But  Anna  had 
not  served  her  time  beneath  the  gaze  of  upper  Ox- 
ford for  nothing;  she  managed  to  be  charming,  full 
of  interest  and  questions  in  her  still  rather  foreign 
accent.  Miss  Doone — soon  she  became  Sylvia — 
must  show  her  all  the  treasures  and  antiquities. 
Was  it  too  dark  to  go  out  just  to  look  at  the  old 
house  by  night?  Oh,  no.  Not  a  bit.  There  were 
goloshes  in  the  hall.  And  they  went,  the  girl  lead- 
ing, and  talking  of  Anna  knew  not  what,  so  ab- 
sorbed was  she  in  thinking  how  for  a  moment,  just 
a  moment,  she  could  contrive  to  be  with  the  boy 
alone. 

It  was  not  remarkable,  this  old  house,  but  it  was 
his  home — might  some  day  perhaps  be  his.     And 


86  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

houses  at  night  were  strangely  ahve  with  their  win- 
dow eyes. 

"That  is  my  room,"  the  girl  said,  "where  the 
jessamine  is — you  can  just  see  it.  Mark's  is  above 
— look,  under  where  the  eave  hangs  out,  away  to 
the  left.     The  other  night " 

"Yes;  the  other  night?" 

"Oh,  I  don't !    Listen.    That's  an  owl.     We 

have  heaps  of  owls.  Mark  likes  them.  I  don't, 
much." 

Always  Mark! 

"He's  awfully  keen,  you  see,  about  all  beasts  and 
birds — he  models  them.  Shall  I  show  you  his  work- 
shop?— it's  an  old  greenhouse.  Here,  you  can  see  in." 

There  through  the  glass  Anna  indeed  could  just 
see  the  boy's  quaint  creations  huddling  in  the  dark 
on  a  bare  floor,  a  grotesque  company  of  small  mon- 
sters.    She  murmured: 

"Yes,  I  see  them,  but  I  won't  really  look  unless 
he  brings  me  himself." 

"Oh,  he's  sure  to.  They  interest  him  more  than 
anything  in  the  world." 

For  all  her  cautious  resolutions  Anna  could  not 
for  the  life  of  her  help  saying: 

"What,  more  than  you?" 

The  girl  gave  her  a  wistful  stare  before  she  an- 
swered : 

"Oh!  I  don't  count  much." 

Anna  laughed,  and  took  her  arm.  How  soft  and 
young  it  felt !  A  pang  went  through  her  heart,  half 
jealous,  half  remorseful. 


SPRING  87 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said,  "that  you  are  very 
sweet?" 

The  girl  did  not  answer. 

"Are  you  his  cousin?" 

"No.  Gordy  is  only  Mark's  uncle  by  marriage; 
my  mother  is  Gordy 's  sister — so  I'm  nothing." 

Nothing! 

"I  see — just  what  you  English  call  *a  connection.'  " 

They  were  silent,  seeming  to  examine  the  night; 
then  the  girl  said: 

"I  wanted  to  see  you  awfully.  You're  not  like 
what  I  thought." 

"  Oh !    And  what  did  you  think?  " 

"I  thought  you  would  have  dark  eyes,  and  Vene- 
tian red  hair,  and  not  be  quite  so  tall.  Of  course, 
I  haven't  any  imagination." 

They  were  at  the  door  again  when  the  girl  said 
that,  and  the  hall  light  was  falling  on  her;  her  slip 
of  a  white  figure  showed  clear.  Young — how  young 
she  looked!    Everything  she  said — so  young! 

And  Anna  murmured:  "And  you  are — more  than 
I  thought,  too." 

Just  then  the  men  came  out  from  the  dining- 
room;  her  husband  with  the  look  on  his  face  that 
denoted  he  had  been  well  listened  to;  Squire  Tru- 
sham  laughing  as  a  man  does  who  has  no  sense  of 
humour;  Gordy  having  a  curly,  slightly  asphyxiated 
air;  and  the  boy  his  pale,  brooding  look,  as  though 
he  had  lost  touch  with  his  surroundings.  He  wa- 
vered towards  her,  seemed  to  lose  himself,  went  and 
sat  down  by  the  old  governess.     Was  it  because  he 


88  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

did  not  dare  to  come  up  to  her,  or  only  because  he 
saw  the  old  lady  sitting  alone?  It  might  well  be 
that. 

And  the  evening,  so  different  from  what  she  had 
dreamed  of,  closed  in.  Squire  Trusham  was  gone 
in  his  high  dog-cart,  with  his  famous  mare  whose 
exploits  had  entertained  her  all  through  dinner. 
Her  candle  had  been  given  her;  she  had  said  good- 
night to  all  but  Mark.  What  should  she  do  when 
she  had  his  hand  in  hers?  She  would  be  alone  with 
him  in  that  grasp,  whose  strength  no  one  could  see. 
And  she  did  not  know  whether  to  clasp  it  passion- 
ately, or  to  let  it  go  coolly  back  to  its  owner;  whether 
to  claim  him  or  to  wait.  But  she  was  unable  to 
help  pressing  it  feverishly.  At  once  in  his  face  she 
saw  again  that  troubled  look;  and  her  heart  smote 
her.  She  let  it  go,  and  that  she  might  not  see  him 
say  good-night  to  the  girl,  turned  and  mounted  to 
her  room. 

Fully  dressed,  she  flung  herself  on  the  bed,  and 
there  lay,  her  handkerchief  across  her  mouth,  gnaw- 
ing at  its  edges. 

XV 

Mark's  nineteenth  birthday  rose  in  grey  mist, 
slowly  dropped  its  veil  to  the  grass,  and  shone  clear 
and  glistening.  He  woke  early.  From  his  window 
he  could  see  nothing  in  the  steep  park  but  the  soft 
blue-grey,  balloon-shaped  oaks  suspended  one  above 
the  other  among  the  round-topped  boulders.     It 


SPRING  89 

was  in  early  morning  that  he  ahvays  got  his  strong- 
est feeling  of  wanting  to  model  things;  then  and 
after  dark,  when,  for  want  of  light,  it  was  no  use. 
This  morning  he  had  the  craving  badly,  and  the 
sense  of  not  knowing  how  weighed  down  his  spirit. 
His  drawings,  his  models — they  were  all  so  bad, 
so  fumbly.  If  only  this  had  been  his  twenty-first 
birthday,  and  he  had  his  money,  and  could  do  what 
he  liked.  He  would  not  stay  in  England.  He  would 
be  off  to  Athens,  or  Rome,  or  even  to  Paris,  and 
work  till  he  could  do  something.  And  in  his  holi- 
days he  would  study  animals  and  birds  in  wild 
countries  where  there  were  plenty  of  them,  and  you 
could  watch  them  in  their  haunts.  It  was  stupid 
having  to  stay  in  a  place  like  Oxford;  but  at  the 
thought  of  what  Oxford  meant,  his  roaming  fancy, 
like  a  bird  hypnotized  by  a  hawk,  fluttered,  stayed 
suspended,  and  dived  back  to  earth.  And  that  feel- 
ing of  wanting  to  make  things  suddenly  left  him. 
It  was  as  though  he  had  woken  up,  his  real  self; 
then — lost  that  self  again.  Very  quietly  he  made 
his  way  downstairs.  The  garden  door  was  not  shut- 
tered, not  even  locked — it  must  have  been  forgotten 
overnight.  Last  night!  He  had  never  thought  he 
would  feel  like  this  when  she  came — so  bewildered, 
and  confused;  drawn  towards  her,  but  by  something 
held  back.  And  he  felt  impatient,  angry  with  him- 
self, almost  with  her.  Why  could  he  not  be  just 
simply  happy,  as  this  morning  was  happy?  He  got 
his  field-glasses  and  searched  the  meadow  that  led 
down  to  the  river.    Yes,  there  were  several  rabbits 


90  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

out.  With  the  white  marguerites  and  the  dew  cob- 
webs, it  was  all  moon-flowery  and  white;  and  the 
rabbits  being  there  made  it  perfect.  He  wanted 
one  badly  to  model  from,  and  for  a  moment  was 
tempted  to  get  his  rook  rifle — but  what  was  the  good 
of  a  dead  rabbit — besides,  they  looked  so  happy! 
He  put  the  glasses  down  and  went  towards  his  green- 
house to  get  a  drawing  block,  thinking  to  sit  on  the 
wall  and  make  a  sort  of  Misdummer  Night's  Dream 
sketch  of  flowers  and  rabbits.  Someone  was  there, 
bending  down  and  doing  something  to  his  creatures. 
Who  had  the  cheek?  Why,  it  was  Sylvia — in  her 
dressing-gown!  He  grew  hot,  then  cold,  with  anger. 
He  could  not  bear  anyone  in  that  holy  place!  It 
was  hateful  to  have  his  things  even  looked  at;  and 
she — she  seemed  to  be  fingering  them.  He  pulled 
the  door  open  with  a  jerk,  and  said:  "What  are 
you  doing?"  He  was  indeed  so  stirred  by  righteous 
wrath  that  he  hardly  noticed  the  gasp  she  gave, 
and  the  collapse  of  her  figure  against  the  wall.  She 
ran  past  him,  and  vanished  without  a  word.  He 
went  up  to  his  creatures  and  saw  that  she  had 
placed  on  the  head  of  each  one  of  them  a  Uttle 
sprig  of  jessamine  flower.  Why!  It  was  idiotic! 
He  could  see  nothing  at  first  but  the  ludicrousness 
of  flowers  on  the  heads  of  his  beasts!  Then  the 
desperation  of  this  attempt  to  imagine  something 
graceful,  something  that  would  give  him  pleasure 
touched  him;  for  he  saw  now  that  this  was  a  birth- 
day decoration.  From  that  it  was  only  a  second 
before  he  was  horrified  with  himself.    Poor  Uttle 


SPRING  91 

Sylvia!  What  a  brute  he  was!  She  had  plucked 
all  that  jessamine,  hung  out  of  her  window  and 
risked  falHng  to  get  hold  of  it;  and  she  had  woken 
up  early  and  come  down  in  her  dressing-gown  just  to 
do  something  that  she  thought  he  would  like !  Hor- 
rible— what  he  had  done!  Now,  when  it  was  too 
late,  he  saw,  only  too  clearly,  her  startled  white 
face  and  quivering  lips,  and  the  way  she  had  shrunk 
against  the  wall.  How  pretty  she  had  looked  in  her 
dressing-gown  with  her  hair  all  about  her,  frightened 
Hke  that!  He  would  do  anything  now  to  make  up 
to  her  for  having  been  such  a  perfect  beast!  The 
feeling,  always  a  Httle  with  him,  that  he  must  look 
after  her — dating,  no  doubt,  from  days  when  he  had 
protected  her  from  the  bulls  that  were  not  there; 
and  the  feeling  of  her  being  so  sweet  and  decent  to 
him  always;  and  some  other  feeling  too — all  these 
suddenly  reached  poignant  climax.  He  simply  must 
make  it  up  to  her !  He  ran  back  into  the  house  and 
stole  upstairs.  Outside  her  room  he  listened  with 
all  his  might,  but  could  hear  nothing;  then  tapped 
softly  with  one  nail,  and,  putting  his  mouth  to  the 
keyhole,  whispered:  "Sylvia!"  Again  and  again  he 
whispered  her  name.  He  even  tried  the  handle, 
meaning  to  open  the  door  an  inch,  but  it  was  bolted. 
Once  he  thought  he  heard  a  noise  like  sobbing,  and 
this  made  him  still  more  wretched.  At  last  he  gave 
it  up;  she  would  not  come,  would  not  be  consoled. 
He  deserved  it,  he  knew,  but  it  was  very  hard.  And 
dreadfully  dispirited  he  went  up  to  his  room,  took 
a  bit  of  paper,  and  tried  to  write: 


92  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

"Dearest  Sylvia, 

"It  was  most  awfully  sweet  of  you  to  put  your 
stars  on  my  beasts.  It  was  just  about  the  most 
sweet  thing  you  could  have  done.  I  am  an  awful 
brute,  but,  of  course,  if  I  had  only  known  what  you 
were  doing,  I  should  have  loved  it.  Do  forgive  me; 
I  deserve  it,  I  know — only  it  is  my  birthday. 

"Your  sorrowful 
"Mark." 

He  took  this  down,  slipped  it  under  her  door, 
tapped  so  that  she  might  notice  it,  and  stole  away. 
It  relieved  his  mind  a  little,  and  he  went  down- 
stairs again. 

Back  in  the  greenhouse,  sitting  on  a  stool,  he  rue- 
fully contemplated  those  chapletted  beasts.  They 
consisted  of  a  crow,  a  sheep,  a  turkey,  two  doves,  a 
pony,  and  sundry  fragments.  She  had  fastened  the 
jessamine  sprigs  to  the  tops  of  their  heads  by  a  tiny 
daub  of  wet  clay,  and  had  evidently  been  surprised 
trying  to  put  a  sprig  into  the  mouth  of  one  of  the 
doves,  for  it  hung  by  a  little  thread  of  clay  from 
the  beak.  He  detached  it  and  put  it  in  his  button- 
hole. Poor  Httle  Sylvia!  she  took  things  awfully  to 
heart.  He  would  be  as  nice  as  ever  he  could  to  her 
all  day.  And,  balancing  on  his  stool,  he  stared  fix- 
edly at  the  wall  against  which  she  had  fallen  back; 
the  line  of  her  soft  chin  and  throat  seemed  now  to 
be  his  only  memory.  It  was  very  queer  how  he 
could  see  nothing  but  that,  the  way  the  throat 
moved,  swallowed — so  white,  so  soft.     And  he  had 


SPRING  93 

made  it  go  like  that!    It  seemed  an  unconscionable 
time  till  breakfast. 

As  the  hour  approached  he  haunted  the  hall,  ho- 
ping she  might  be  first  down.  At  last  he  heard  foot- 
steps, and  waited,  hidden  behind  the  door  of  the 
empty  dining-room,  lest  at  sight  of  him  she  should 
turn  back.  He  had  rehearsed  what  he  was  going 
to  do — bend  down  and  kiss  her  hand  and  say: 
''Dulcinea  del  Toboso  is  the  most  beautiful  lady  in 
the  world,  and  I  the  most  unfortunate  knight  upon 
the  earth,"  from  his  favourite  passage  out  of  his 
favourite  book,  'Don  Quixote.'  She  would  surely 
forgive  him  then,  and  his  heart  would  no  longer 
hurt  him.  Certainly  she  could  never  go  on  making 
him  so  miserable  if  she  knew  his  feelings!  She  was 
too  soft  and  gentle  for  that.  Alas!  it  was  not  Syl- 
via who  came;  but  Anna,  fresh  from  sleep,  with  her 
ice-green  eyes  and  bright  hair;  and  in  sudden  strange 
antipathy  to  her,  that  strong,  vivid  figure,  he  stood 
dumb.  And  this  first  lonely  moment,  which  he  had 
so  many  times  in  fancy  spent  locked  in  her  arms, 
passed  without  even  a  kiss;  for  quickly  one  by  one 
the  others  came.  But  of  Sylvia  only  news  through 
Mrs.  Doone  that  she  had  a  headache,  and  was  stay- 
ing in  bed.  Her  present  was  on  the  sideboard,  a 
book  called  'Sartor  Resartus.'  "Mark — from  Syl- 
via, August  ist,  1880,"  together  with  Gordy's  cheque, 
Mrs.  Doone's  pearl  pin,  old  Tingle's  '  Stones  of  Ven- 
ice,' and  one  other  little  parcel  wrapped  in  tissue- 
paper — four  ties  of  varying  shades  of  green,  red,  and 
blue,  hand-knitted  in  silk — a  present  of  how  many 


94  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

hours  made  short  by  the  thought  that  he  would 
wear  the  produce  of  that  chcking.  He  did  not  fail 
in  outer  gratitude,  but  did  he  realize  what  had  been 
knitted  into  those  ties?    Not  then. 

Birthdays,  Uke  Christmas  days,  were  made  for 
disenchantment.  Always  the  false  gaiety  of  gaiety 
arranged — always  that  pistol  to  the  head:  'Con- 
found you!  enjoy  yourself!'  How  could  he  enjoy 
himself  with  the  thought  of  Sylvia  in  her  room, 
made  ill  by  his  brutality!  The  vision  of  her  throat 
working,  swallowing  her  grief,  haunted  him  like  a 
little  white,  soft  spectre  all  through  the  long  drive 
out  on  to  the  moor,  and  the  picnic  in  the  heather, 
and  the  long  drive  home — haunted  him  so  that  when 
Anna  touched  or  looked  at  him  he  had  no  spirit  to 
answer,  no  spirit  even  to  try  and  be  with  her  alone, 
but  almost  a  dread  of  it  instead. 

And  when  at  last  they  were  at  home  again,  and 
she  whispered: 

"What  is  it?  What  have  I  done?"  he  could  only 
mutter: 

"Nothing!  Oh,  nothing!  It's  only  that  I've  been 
a  brute!" 

At  that  enigmatic  answer  she  might  well  search 
his  face. 

"Is  it  my  husband?" 

He  could  answer  that,  at  all  events. 

"Oh,  no!" 

"What  is  it,  then?    Tell  me." 

They  were  standing  in  the  inner  porch,  pretend- 
ing  to   examine   the   ancestral   chart — dotted   and 


SPRING  95 

starred  with  dolphins  and  httle  full-rigged  galleons 
sailing  into  harbours — which  always  hung  just 
there. 

"Tell  me,  Mark;   I  don't  like  to  sufifer!" 

What  could  he  say,  since  he  did  not  know  him- 
self? He  stammered,  tried  to  speak,  could  not  get 
anything  out. 

"Is  it  that  girl?" 

Startled,  he  looked  away,  and  said: 

"Of  course  not." 

She  shivered,  and  went  into  the  house. 

But  he  stayed,  staring  at  the  chart  with  a  dread- 
ful stirred-up  feeling — of  shame  and  irritation,  pity, 
impatience,  fear,  all  mixed.  What  had  he  done, 
said,  lost?  It  was  that  horrid  feeling  of  when  one 
has  not  been  kind  and  not  quite  true,  yet  might 
have  been  kinder  if  one  had  been  still  less  true. 
Ah!  but  it  was  all  so  mixed  up.  It  felt  all  bleak, 
too,  and  wintry  in  him,  as  if  he  had  suddenly  lost 
everybody's  love.  Then  he  was  conscious  of  his 
tutor. 

"Ah!  friend  Lennan — looking  deeply  into  the  past 
from  the  less  romantic  present?  Nice  things,  those 
old  charts.     The  dolphins  are  extremely  jolly." 

It  was  difficult  to  remember  not  to  be  ill-mannered 
then.  Why  did  Stormer  jeer  like  that?  He  just 
managed  to  answer: 

"Yes,  sir;   I  wish  we  had  some  now." 

"There  are  so  many  moons  we  wish  for,  Lennan, 
and  they  none  of  them  come  tumbling  down." 

The  voice  was  almost  earnest,  and  the  boy's  re- 


96  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

sentment  fled.    He  felt  sorry,  but  why  he  did  not 

know. 

"In  the  meantime,"  he  heard  his  tutor  say,  "let 
us  dress  for  dinner." 

When  he  came  down  to  the  drawing-room,  Anna 
in  her  moonhght-coloured  frock  was  sitting  on  the 
sofa  talking  to — Sylvia.  He  kept  away  from  them; 
they  could  neither  of  them  want  him.  But  it  did 
seem  odd  to  him,  who  knew  not  too  much  concerning 
women,  that  she  could  be  talking  so  gaily,  when  only 
half  an  hour  ago  she  had  said:    "Is  it  that  girl?" 

He  sat  next  her  at  dinner.  Again  it  was  puzzHng 
that  she  should  be  laughing  so  serenely  at  Gordy's 
stories.  Did  the  whispering  in  the  porch,  then,  mean 
nothing?  And  Sylvia  would  not  look  at  him;  he 
felt  sure  that  she  turned  her  eyes  away  simply  be- 
cause she  knew  he  was  going  to  look  in  her  direc- 
tion. And  this  roused  in  him  a  sore  feeling — every- 
thing that  night  seemed  to  rouse  that  feeUng — of 
injustice;  he  was  cast  out,  and  he  could  not  tell 
why.  He  had  not  meant  to  hurt  either  of  them! 
Why  should  they  both  want  to  hurt  him  so?  And 
presently  there  came  to  him  a  feeling  that  he  did 
not  care:  Let  them  treat  him  as  they  liked!  There 
were  other  things  besides  love!  If  they  did  not 
want  him— he  did  not  want  them!  And  he  hugged 
this  reckless,  unhappy,  don't-care  feeluig  to  him 
with  all  the  abandonment  of  youth. 

But  even  birthdays  come  to  an  end.  And  moods 
and  feelings  that  seem  so  desperately  real  die  in  the 
unreality  of  sleep. 


SPRING  97 


XVI 


If  to  the  boy  that  birthday  was  all  bewildered 
disillusionment,  to  Anna  it  was  verily  slow  torture; 
she  found  no  relief  in  thinking  that  there  were  things 
in  life  other  than  love.  But  next  morning  brought 
readjustment,  a  sense  of  yesterday's  extravagance, 
a  renewal  of  hope.  Impossible  surely  that  in  one 
short  fortnight  she  had  lost  what  she  had  made 
so  sure  of!  She  had  only  to  be  resolute.  Only  to 
grasp  firmly  what  was  hers.  After  all  these  empty 
years  was  she  not  to  have  her  hour?  To  sit  still 
meekly  and  see  it  snatched  from  her  by  a  slip  of  a  soft 
girl?  A  thousand  times,  no!  And  she  watched  her 
chance.  She  saw  him  about  noon  sally  forth  to- 
wards the  river,  with  his  rod.  She  had  to  wait  a 
little,  for  Gordy  and  his  bailiff  were  down  there  by 
the  tennis  lawn,  but  they  soon  moved  on.  She  ran 
out  then  to  the  park  gate.  Once  through  that  she 
felt  safe;  her  husband,  she  knew,  was  working  in 
his  room;  the  girl  somewhere  invisible;  the  old 
governess  still  at  her  housekeeping;  Mrs.  Doone 
writing  letters.  She  felt  full  of  hope  and  courage. 
This  old  wild  tangle  of  a  park,  that  she  had  not  yet 
seen,  was  beautiful — a  true  trysting-place  for  fauns 
and  nymphs,  with  its  mossy  trees  and  boulders  and 
the  high  bracken.  She  kept  along  under  the  wall 
in  the  direction  of  the  river,  but  came  to  no  gate, 
and  began  to  be  afraid  that  she  was  going  wrong. 
She  could  hear  the  river  on  the  other  side,  and 


98  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

looked  for  some  place  where  she  could  climb  and 
>  see  exactly  where  she  was.  An  old  ash-tree  tempted 
her.  Scrambling  up  into  its  fork,  she  could  just 
see  over.  There  was  the  little  river  within  twenty 
yards,  its  clear  dark  water  running  between  thick 
foliage.  On  its  bank  lay  a  huge  stone  balanced  on 
another  stone  still  more  huge.  And  with  his  back 
to  this  stone  stood  the  boy,  his  rod  leaning  beside 
him.  And  there,  on  the  ground,  her  arms  resting 
on  her  knees,  her  chin  on  her  hands,  that  girl  sat 
looking  up.  How  eager  his  eyes  now — how  differ- 
ent from  the  brooding  eyes  of  yesterday! 

"So,  you  see,  that  was  all.  You  might  forgive 
me,  Sylvia!" 

And  to  Anna  it  seemed  verily  as  if  those  two 
young  faces  formed  suddenly  but  one — the  face  of 
youth. 

If  she  had  stayed  there  looking  for  all  time,  she 
could  not  have  had  graven  on  her  heart  a  vision 
more  indelible.  Vision  of  Spring,  of  all  that  was 
gone  from  her  for  ever !  She  shrank  back  out  of  the 
fork  of  the  old  ash-tree,  and,  like  a  stricken  beast, 
went  hurrying,  stumbling  away,  amongst  the  stones 
and  bracken.  She  ran  thus  perhaps  a  quarter  of  a 
mile,  then  threw  up  her  arms,  fell  down  amongst 
the  fern,  and  lay  there  on  her  face.  At  first  her 
heart  hurt  her  so  that  she  felt  nothing  but  that 
physical  pain.  If  she  could  have  died!  But  she 
knew  it  was  nothing  but  breathlessness.  It  left  her, 
and  that  which  took  its  place  she  tried  to  drive  away 
by  pressing  her  breast  against  the  ground,  by  clutch- 


SPRING  99 

ing  the  stalks  of  the  bracken — an  ache,  an  empti- 
ness too  dreadful!  Youth  to  youth!  He  was  gone 
from  her — and  she  was  alone  again!  She  did  not 
cry.  What  good  in  crying?  But  gusts  of  shame 
kept  sweeping  through  her;  shame  and  rage.  So 
this  was  all  she  was  worth!  The  sun  struck  hot  on 
her  back  in  that  lair  of  tangled  fern,  where  she  had 
fallen;  she  felt  faint  and  sick.  She  had  not  known 
till  now  quite  what  this  passion  for  the  boy  had 
meant  to  her;  how  much  of  her  very  beUef  in  her- 
self was  bound  up  with  it;  how  much  clinging  to 
her  own  youth.  What  bitterness!  One  soft  slip  of 
a  white  girl — one  young  thing — and  she  had  become 
as  nothing!  But  was  that  true?  Could  she  not 
even  now  wrench  him  back  to  her  with  the  passion 
that  this  child  knew  nothing  of!  Surely!  Oh, 
surely!  Let  him  but  once  taste  the  rapture  she 
could  give  him!  And  at  that  thought  she  ceased 
clutching  at  the  bracken  stalks,  lying  as  still  as  the 
very  stones  around  her.  Could  she  not?  Might 
she  not,  even  now?  And  all  feeling,  except  just  a 
sort  of  quivering,  deserted  her — as  if  she  had  fallen 
into  a  trance.  Why  spare  this  girl?  Why  falter? 
She  was  first!  He  had  been  hers  out  there.  And 
she  still  had  the  power  to  draw  him.  At  dinner  the 
first  evening  she  had  dragged  his  gaze  to  her,  away 
from  that  girl — away  from  youth,  as  a  magnet 
draws  steel.  She  could  still  bind  him  with  chains 
that  for  a  little  while  at  all  events  he  would  not 
want  to  break!  Bind  him?  Hateful  word!  Take 
him,  hankering  after  what  she  could  not  give  him — 
youth,  white  innocence.  Spring?    It  would  be  in- 


lOO  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

famous,  infamous!  She  sprang  up  from  the  fern,  and 
ran  along  the  hillside,  not  looking  where  she  went, 
stumbling  among  the  tangled  growth,  in  and  out 
of  the  boulders,  till  she  once  more  sank  breathless 
on  to  a  stone.  It  was  bare  of  trees  just  here,  and 
she  could  see,  across  the  river  valley,  the  high  larch- 
crowned  tor  on  the  far  side.  The  sky  was  clear — 
the  sun  bright.  A  hawk  was  wheeling  over  that 
hill;  far  up,  very  near  the  blue!  Infamous!  She 
could  not  do  that!  Could  not  drug  him,  drag  him 
to  her  by  his  senses,  by  all  that  was  least  high  in 
him,  when  she  wished  for  him  all  the  finest  things 
that  life  could  give,  as  if  she  had  been  his  mother. 
She  could  not.  It  would  be  wicked!  In  that  mo- 
ment of  intense  spiritual  agony,  those  two  down 
there  in  the  sun,  by  the  grey  stone  and  the  dark 
water,  seemed  guarded  from  her,  protected.  The 
girl's  white  flower-face  trembhng  up,  the  boy's  gaze 
leaping  down!  Strange  that  a  heart  which  felt  that, 
could  hate  at  the  same  moment  that  flower-face, 
and  burn  to  kill  with  kisses  that  eagerness  in  the 
boy's  eyes.  The  storm  in  her  slowly  passed.  And 
she  prayed  just  to  feel  nothing.  It  was  natural 
that  she  should  lose  her  hour!  Natural  that  her 
thirst  should  go  unslaked,  and  her  passion  never 
bloom;  natural  that  youth  should  go  to  youth,  this 
boy  to  his  own  kind,  by  the  law  of — love.  The 
breeze  blowing  down  the  vafley  fanned  her  cheeks, 
and  brought  her  a  faint  sensation  of  relief.  Nobil- 
ity! Was  it  just  a  word?  Or  did  those  that  gave 
up  happiness  feel  noble? 

She  wandered  for  a  long  time  in  the  park.    Not 


SPRING  loi 

till  late  afternoon  did  she  again  pass  out  by  the 
gate,  through  which  she  had  entered,  full  of  hope. 
She  met  no  one  before  she  reached  her  room;  and 
there,  to  be  safe,  took  refuge  in  her  bed.  She 
dreaded  only  lest  the  feeling  of  utter  weariness 
should  leave  her.  She  wanted  no  vigour  of  mind 
or  body  till  she  was  away  from  here.  She  meant 
neither  to  eat  nor  drink;  only  to  sleep,  if  she  could. 
To-morrow,  if  there  were  any  early  train,  she  could 
be  gone  before  she  need  see  anyone;  her  husband 
must  arrange.  As  to  what  he  would  think,  and  she 
could  say — time  enough  to  decide  that.  And  what 
did  it  matter?  The  one  vital  thing  now  was  not 
to  see  the  boy,  for  she  could  not  again  go  through 
■  hours  of  struggle  like  those.  She  rang  the  bell,  and 
sent  the  startled  maid  with  a  message  to  her  hus- 
band. And  while  she  waited  for  him  to  come,  her 
pride  began  revolting.  She  must  not  let  him  see. 
That  would  be  horrible.  And  slipping  out  of  bed 
she  got  a  handkerchief  and  the  eau-de-Cologne 
flask,  and  bandaged  her  forehead.  He  came  almost 
instantly,  entering  in  his  quick,  noiseless  way,  and 
stood  looking  at  her.  He  did  not  ask  what  was  the 
matter,  but  simply  waited.  And  never  before  had 
she  realized  so  completely  how  he  began,  as  it  were, 
where  she  left  off;  began  on  a  plane  from  which  in- 
stinct and  feeling  were  as  carefully  ruled  out  as 
though  they  had  been  blasphemous.  She  sum- 
moned all  her  courage,  and  said:  "I  went  into  the 
park;  the  sun  must  have  been  too  hot.  I  should 
like   to   go   home   to-morrow,  if   you   don't  mind. 


I02  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

I   can't   bear   not   feeling   well   in   other   people's 
houses." 

She  was  conscious  of  a  smile  flickering  over  his 
face;   then  it  grew  grave. 

"Ah!"  he  said;  "yes.  The  sun,  a  touch  of  that 
will  last  some  days.  Will  you  be  fit  to  travel, 
though?" 

She  had  a  sudden  conviction  that  he  knew  all 
about  it,  but  that — since  to  know  all  about  it  was 
to  feel  himself  ridiculous — he  had  the  power  of  ma- 
king himself  beheve  that  he  knew  nothing.  Was 
this  fine  of  him,  or  was  it  hateful? 

She  closed  her  eyes  and  said: 

"My  head  is  bad,  but  I  shall  be  able.     Only  I 
don't  want  a  fuss  made.     Could  we  go  by  a  train' 
before  they  are  down?" 

She  heard  him  say: 

"Yes.    That  will  have  its  advantages." 

There  was  not  the  faintest  sound  now,  but  of 
course  he  was  still  there.  In  that  dumb,  motion- 
less presence  was  all  her  future.  Yes,  that  would 
be  her  future — a  thing  without  feeUng,  and  without 
motion.  A  fearful  curiosity  came  on  her  to  look  at 
it.  She  opened  her  gaze.  He  was  still  standing 
just  as  he  had  been,  his  eyes  fixed  on  her.  But 
one  hand,  on  the  edge  of  his  coat  pocket — out  of 
the  picture,  as  it  were — was  nervously  closing  and 
unclosing.  And  suddenly  she  felt  pity.  Not  for 
her  future — ^which  must  be  like  that;  but  for  him. 
How  dreadful  to  have  grown  so  that  all  emotion 
was  exiled — how  dreadful!    And  she  said  gently: 


SPRING  103 

"I  am  sorry,  Harold." 

As  if  he  had  heard  something  strange  and  start- 
ling, his  eyes  dilated  in  a  curious  way,  he  buried 
that  nervous  hand  in  his  pocket,  turned,  and  went 
out. 

XVII 

When  young  Mark  came  on  Sylvia  by  the  logan- 
stone,  it  was  less  surprising  to  him  than  if  he  had 
not  known  she  was  there — having  watched  her  go. 
She  was  sitting,  all  humped  together,  brooding  over 
the  water,  her  sunbonnet  thrown  back;  and  that 
hair,  in  which  his  star  had  caught,  shining  faint- 
gold  under  the  sun.  He  came  on  her  softly  through 
the  grass,  and,  when  he  was  a  Httle  way  off,  thought 
it  best  to  halt.  If  he  startled  her  she  might  run 
away,  and  he  would  not  have  the  heart  to  follow. 
How  still  she  was,  lost  in  her  brooding!  He  wished 
he  could  see  her  face.     He  spoke  at  last,  gently: 

"Sylvia!  .  .  .  Would  you  mind?" 

And,  seeing  that  she  did  not  move,  he  went  up 
to  her.  Surely  she  could  not  stiU  be  angry  with 
him! 

''Thanks  most  awfully  for  that  book  you  gave 
me — it  looks  splendid!" 

She  made  no  answer.  And  leaning  his  rod  against 
the  stone,  he  sighed.  That  silence  of  hers  seemed  to 
him  unjust;  what  was  it  she  wanted  him  to  say  or 
do?  Life  was  not  worth  living,  if  it  was  to  be  all 
bottled  up  like  this. 


I04  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

"I  never  meant  to  hurt  you.  I  hate  hurting 
people.  It's  only  that  my  beasts  are  so  bad — I 
can't  bear  people  to  see  them — especially  you — I 
want  to  please  you — I  do  really.  So,  you  see,  that 
was  all.    You  might  forgive  me,  Sylvia!" 

Something  over  the  wall,  a  rustling,  a  scattering 
in  the  fern — deer,  no  doubt!  And  again  he  said 
eagerly,  softly: 

"You  might  be  nice  to  me,  Sylvia;  you  really 
might." 

Very  quickly,  turning  her  head  away,  she  said: 

"It  isn't  that  any  more.  It's — it's  something 
else." 

"What  else?" 

"Nothing — only,  that  I  don't  count — now " 

He  knelt  down  beside  her.  What  did  she  mean? 
But  he  knew  well  enough. 

"Of  course,  you  count!  Most  awfully!  Oh, 
don't  be  unhappy!  I  hate  people  being  unhappy. 
Don't  be  unhappy,  Sylvia!"  And  he  began  gently 
to  stroke  her  arm.  It  was  all  strange  and  troubled 
within  him;  one  thing  only  plain — he  must  not 
admit  anything!  As  if  reading  that  thought,  her 
blue  eyes  seemed  suddenly  to  search  right  into  him. 
Then  she  pulled  some  blades  of  grass,  and  began 
plaiting  them. 

"She  counts." 

Ah!  He  was  not  going  to  say:  She  doesn't!  It 
would  be  caddish  to  say  that.     Even  if  she  didn't 

count Did  she  still? — it  would  be  mean  and  low. 

And  in  his  eyes  just  then  there  was  the  look  that 


SPRING  105 

had  made  his  tutor  compare  him  to  a  lion  cub  in 
trouble. 

Sylvia  was  touching  his  arm. 

"Mark!" 

"Yes." 

"Don't!" 

He  got  up  and  took  his  rod.  What  was  the  use? 
He  could  not  stay  there  with  her,  since  he  could 
not — must  not  speak. 

"Are  you  going?" 

"Yes." 

"Are  you  angry?  Please  don't  be  angry  with 
me. 

He  felt  a  choke  in  his  throat,  bent  down  to  her 
hand,  and  kissed  it;  then  shouldered  his  rod,  and 
marched  away.  Looking  back  once,  he  saw  her 
still  sitting  there,  gazing  after  him,  forlorn,  by  that 
great  stone.  It  seemed  to  him,  then,  there  was  no- 
where he  could  go;  nowhere  except  among  the  birds 
and  beasts  and  trees,  who  did  not  mind  even  if  you 
were  all  mixed  up  and  horrible  inside.  He  lay  down 
in  the  grass  on  the  bank.  He  could  see  the  tiny 
trout  moving  round  and  round  the  stones;  swallows 
came  all  about  him,  flying  very  low;  a  hornet,  too, 
bore  him  company  for  a  little.  But  he  could  take 
interest  in  nothing;  it  was  as  if  his  spirit  were  in 
prison.  It  would  have  been  nice,  indeed,  to  be 
that  water,  never  staging,  passing,  passing;  or  wind, 
touching  cverj^thing,  never  caught.  To  be  able  to 
do  nothing  without  hurting  someone — that  was 
what  was  so  ghastly.     If  only  one  were  Uke  a  flower. 


io6  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

that  just  sprang  up  and  lived  its  life  all  to  itself,  and 
died.  But  whatever  he  did,  or  said  now,  would  be 
like  telling  Ues,  or  else  being  cruel.  The  only  thing 
was  to  keep  away  from  people.  And  yet  how  keep 
away  from  his  own  guests? 

He  went  back  to  the  house  for  lunch,  but  both 
those  guests  were  out,  no  one  seemed  quite  to  know 
where.  Restless,  unhappy,  puzzled,  he  wandered 
round  and  about  all  the  afternoon.  Just  before 
dinner  he  was  told  of  Mrs.  Stormer's  not  being  well, 
and  that  they  would  be  leaving  to-morrow.  Going 
— after  three  days!  That  plunged  him  deeper  into 
his  strange  and  sorrowful  confusion.  He  was  re- 
duced now  to  a  complete  brooding  silence.  He 
knew  he  was  attracting  attention,  but  could  not 
help  it.  Several  times  during  dinner  he  caught 
Gordy's  eyes  fixed  on  him,  from  under  those  puffy 
half -closed  hds,  with  asphyxiated  speculation.  But 
he  simply  could  not  talk — everything  that  came  into 
his  mind  to  say  seemed  false.  Ah!  it  was  a  sad 
evening — ^with  its  glimmering  vision  into  another's 
sore  heart,  its  confused  gnawing  sense  of  things 
broken,  faith  betrayed;  and  yet  always  the  per- 
plexed wonder — "How  could  I  have  helped  it?" 
And  always  Sylvia's  wistful  face  that  he  tried  not 
to  look  at. 

He  stole  out,  leaving  Gordy  and  his  tutor  still 
over  their  wine,  and  roamed  about  the  garden  a 
long  time,  listening  sadly  to  the  owls.  It  was  a 
blessing  to  get  upstairs,  though  of  course  he  would 
not  sleep. 


SPRING  107 

But  he  did  sleep,  all  through  a  night  of  many 
dreams,  in  the  last  of  which  he  was  lying  on  a 
mountain  side,  Anna  looking  down  into  his  eyes, 
and  bending  her  face  to  his.  He  woke  just  as  her 
lips  touched  him.  Still  under  the  spell  of  that 
troubling  dream,  he  became  conscious  of  the  sound 
of  wheels  and  horses'  hoofs  on  the  gravel,  and  sprang 
out  of  bed.  There  was  the  waggonette  moving  from 
the  door,  old  Godden  driving,  luggage  piled  up  be- 
side him,  and  the  Stormers  sitting  opposite  each 
other  in  the  carriage.  Going  away  like  that — hav- 
ing never  even  said  good-bye!  For  a  moment  he 
felt  as  people  must  when  they  have  unwittingly 
killed  someone — utterly  stunned  and  miserable. 
Then  he  dashed  into  his  clothes.  He  would  not  let 
her  go  thus!  He  would — he  must — see  her  again! 
What  had  he  done  that  she  should  go  Hke  this? 
He  rushed  downstairs.  The  hall  was  empty;  nine- 
teen minutes  to  eight!  The  train  left  at  eight 
o'clock.  Had  he  time  to  saddle  Bolero?  He  rushed 
round  to  the  stables;  but  the  cob  was  out,  being 
shoed.  He  would — he  must  get  there  in  time.  It 
would  show  her  anyway  that  he  was  not  quite  a 
cad.  He  walked  till  the  drive  curved,  then  began 
running  hard.  A  quarter  of  a  mile,  and  already  he 
felt  better,  not  so  miserable  and  guilty;  it  was  some- 
thing to  feel  you  had  a  tough  job  in  hand,  all  your 
work  cut  out — something  to  have  to  think  of  econo- 
mizing strength,  picking  out  the  best  going,  keep- 
ing out  of  the  sun,  saving  your  wind  uphill,  flying 
down  any  slope.     It  was  cool  still,  and  the  dew  had 


lo8  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

laid  the  dust;  there  was  no  traffic  and  scarcely  any- 
one to  look  back  and  gape  as  he  ran  by.  What  he 
would  do,  if  he  got  there  in  time — how  explain  this 
mad  three-mile  run — he  did  not  think.  He  passed 
a  farm  that  he  knew  was  just  half-way.  He  had 
left  his  watch.  Indeed,  he  had  put  on  only  his 
trousers,  shirt,  and  Norfolk  jacket;  no  tie,  no  hat, 
not  even  socks  under  his  tennis  shoes,  and  he  was 
as  hot  as  fire,  with  his  hair  flying  back — a  strange 
young  creature  indeed  for  anyone  to  meet.  But  he 
had  lost  now  all  feehng,  save  the  will  to  get  there. 
A  flock  of  sheep  came  out  of  a  field  into  the  lane. 
He  pushed  through  them  somehow,  but  they  lost 
him  several  seconds.  More  than  a  mile  still;  and 
he  was  blown,  and  his  legs  beginning  to  give !  Down- 
hill indeed  they  went  of  their  own  accord,  but  there 
was  the  long  run-in,  quite  level;  and  he  could  hear 
the  train,  now  slowly  pufling  its  way  along  the  val- 
ley. Then,  in  spite  of  exhaustion,  his  spirit  rose. 
He  would  not  go  in  looking  like  a  scarecrow,  utterly 
done,  and  make  a  scene.  He  must  pull  himself  to- 
gether at  the  end,  and  stroll  in — as  if  he  had  come 
for  fun.  But  how — seeing  that  at  any  moment  he 
felt  he  might  faU  flat  in  the  dust,  and  stay  there 
for  ever!  And,  as  he  ran,  he  made  little  desperate 
efforts  to  mop  his  face,  and  brush  his  clothes.  There 
were  the  gates,  at  last — two  hundred  yards  away. 
The  train,  he  could  hear  no  longer.  It  must  be 
standing  in  the  station.  And  a  sob  came  from  his 
overdriven  lungs.  He  heard  the  guard's  whistle  as 
he  reached  the  gates.     Instead  of  making  for  the 


SPRING  109 

booking-office,  he  ran  along  the  paling,  where  an 
entrance  to  the  goods'-shed  was  open,  and  dashing 
through  he  fell  back  against  the  honeysuckle.  The 
engine  was  just  abreast  of  him;  he  snatched  at  his 
sleeve  and  passed  it  over  his  face,  to  wipe  the  sweat 
away.  Everything  was  blurred.  He  must  see — 
surely  he  had  not  come  in  time  just  not  to  see !  He 
pushed  his  hands  over  his  forehead  and  hair,  and 
spied  up  dizzily  at  the  slowly  passing  train.  She 
was  there,  at  a  window!  Standing,  looking  out!  He 
dared  not  step  forward,  for  fear  of  falhng,  but  he  put 
out  his  hand —  She  saw  him.  Yes,  she  saw  him! 
Wasn't  she  going  to  make  a  sign?  Not  one?  And 
suddenly  he  saw  her  tear  at  her  dress,  pluck  some- 
thing out,  and  throw  it.  It  fell  close  to  his  feet.  He 
did  not  pick  it  up — he  wanted  to  see  her  face  till 
she  was  gone.  It  looked  wonderful — very  proud, 
and  pale.  She  put  her  hand  up  to  her  lips.  Then 
everything  went  blurred  again  and  when  he  could 
see  once  more,  the  train  had  vanished.  But  at  his 
feet  was  what  she  had  throwTi.  He  picked  it  up! 
All  dry  and  dark,  it  was  the  flower  she  had  given 
him  in  the  Tyrol,  and  stolen  back  from  his  button- 
hole. 

Creeping  out,  past  the  goods'-shed,  he  made  his 
way  to  a  field,  and  lay  down  with  his  face  pressed 
to  that  withered  thing  which  still  had  its  scent.  .  .  . 

The  asphyxiated  speculation  in  his  guardian's 
eyes  had  not  been  without  significance.  Mark  did 
not  go  back  to  Oxford.     He  went  instead  to  Rome 


no  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

— to  live  in  his  sister's  house,  and  attend  a  school 
of  sculpture.  That  was  the  beginning  of  a  time 
when   nothing  counted  except  his  work. 

To  Anna  he  wrote  twice,  but  received  no  answer. 
From  his  tutor  he  had  one  little  note: 

"My  dear  Lennan, 

"So!  You  abandon  us  for  Art?  Ah!  well — it 
was  your  moon,  if  I  remember — one  of  them.  A 
worthy  moon — a  little  dusty  in  these  days — a  little 
in  her  decline — but  to  you  no  doubt  a  virgin  god- 
dess, whose  hem,  etc. 

"We  shall  retain  the  friendliest  memories  of  you 
in  spite  of  your  defection. 

"  Once  your  tutor  and  still  your  friend, 

"Harold  Stormer." 

After  that  vacation  it  was  long — very  long  before 
he  saw  Sylvia  again. 


PART  II 
SUMMER 


Gleam  of  a  thousand  lights;  clack  and  mutter  of 
innumerable  voices,  laughter,  footsteps;  hiss  and 
rumble  of  passing  trains  taking  gamblers  back  to 
Nice  or  Mentone;  fevered  wailing  from  the  vioUns 
of  four  fiddlers  with  dark-white  skins  outside  the 
cafe;  and  above,  around,  beyond,  the  dark  sky,  and 
the  dark  mountains,  and  the  dark  sea,  like  some 
great  dark  flower  to  whose  heart  is  clinging  a  jew- 
elled beetle.  So  was  Monte  Carlo  on  that  May 
night  of  1887. 

But  Mark  Lennan,  at  one  of  the  Httle  marble- 
topped  tables,  was  in  too  great  maze  and  exalta- 
tion of  spirit  and  of  senses  to  be  conscious  of  its 
glare  and  babel,  even  of  its  beauty.  He  sat  so  very 
still  that  his  neighbours,  with  the  instinctive  aver- 
sion of  the  human  creature  to  what  is  too  remote 
from  its  own  mood,  after  one  good  stare,  turned  their 
eyes  away,  as  from  something  ludicrous,  almost  of- 
fensive. 

He  was  lost,  indeed,  in  memory  of  the  minutes 
just  gone  by.  For  it  had  come  at  last,  after  all  these 
weeks  of  ferment,  after  all  this  strange  time  of  per- 
turbation. 

Very  stealthily  it  had  been  creeping  on  him,  ever 
since  that  chance  introduction  nearly  a  year  ago, 
soon  after  he  settled  down  in  London,  following 

113 


114  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

those  six  years  of  Rome  and  Paris,  First  the  merest 
friendhness,  because  she  was  so  nice  about  his  work; 
then  respectful  admiration,  because  she  was  so  beau- 
tiful; then  pity,  because  she  was  so  unhappy  in  her 
marriage.  If  she  had  been  happy,  he  would  have 
fled.  The  knowledge  that  she  had  been  unhappy 
long  before  he  knew  her  had  kept  his  conscience  still. 
And  at  last  one  afternoon  she  said:  "Ah!  if  you 
come  out  there  too!"  Marvellously  subtle,  the  way 
that  one  Httle  outshpped  saying  had  worked  in  him, 
as  though  it  had  a  life  of  its  own — hke  a  strange 
bird  that  had  flown  into  the  garden  of  his  heart, 
and  established  itself  with  its  new  song  and  flutter- 
ings,  its  new  flight,  its  wistful  and  ever  clearer  call. 
That  and  one  moment,  a  few  days  later  in  her  Lon- 
don drawing-room,  when  he  had  told  her  that  he 
was  coming,  and  she  did  not,  could  not,  he  felt,  look 
at  him.  Queer,  that  nothing  momentous  said,  done 
— or  even  left  undone — had  altered  all  the  future! 
And  so  she  had  gone  with  her  uncle  and  aunt, 
under  whose  wing  one  might  be  sure  she  would  meet 
with  no  wayward  or  exotic  happenings.  And  he 
had  received  from  her  this  little  letter: 

"  Hotel  Cceur  d'Or, 
"Monte  Carlo. 

"My  dear  Mark, 

"We've  arrived.     It  is  so  good  to  be  in  the  sun. 

The  flowers  are  wonderful.     I  am  keeping  Gorbio 

and  Roquebrune  till  you  come. 

"Your  friend, 

"Olive  Cramier." 


SUMMER  115 

That  letter  was  the  single  clear  memory  he  had 
of  the  time  between  her  going  and  his  following. 
He  received  it  one  afternoon,  sitting  on  an  old  low 
garden  wall  with  the  spring  sun  shining  on  him 
through  apple-trees  in  blossom,  and  a  feeling  as  if 
all  the  desire  of  the  world  lay  before  him,  and  he 
had  but  to  stretch  out  his  arms  to  take  it. 

Then  confused  unrest,  all  things  vague;  till  at 
the  end  of  his  journey  he  stepped  out  of  the  train 
at  Beaulieu  with  a  furiously  beating  heart.  But 
why?  Surely  he  had  not  expected  her  to  come  out 
from  Monte  Carlo  to  meet  him! 

A  week  had  gone  by  since  then  in  one  long  effort 
to  be  with  her  and  appear  to  others  as  though  he 
did  not  greatly  wish  to  be;  two  concerts,  two  walks 
with  her  alone,  when  all  that  he  had  said  seemed  as 
nothing  said,  and  all  her  sayings  but  ghosts  of  what 
he  wished  to  hear;  a  week  of  confusion,  day  and 
night,  until,  a  few  minutes  ago,  her  handkerchief 
had  fallen  from  her  glove  on  to  the  dusty  road,  and 
he  had  picked  it  up  and  put  it  to  his  lips.  Nothing 
could  take  away  the  look  she  had  given  him  then. 
Nothing  could  ever  again  separate  her  from  him 
utterly.  She  had  confessed  in  it  to  the  same  sweet, 
fearful  trouble  that  he  himself  was  feeling.  She 
had  not  spoken,  but  he  had  seen  her  lips  part,  her 
breast  rise  and  fall.  And  he  had  not  spoken.  What 
was  the  use  of  words? 

He  felt  in  the  pocket  of  his  coat.  There,  against 
his  fingers,  was  that  wisp  of  lawn  and  lace,  soft, 
yet  somehow  alive;    and  stealthily  he  took  it  out. 


Ii6  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

The  whole  of  her,  with  her  fragrance,  seemed  pressed 
to  his  face  in  the  touch  of  that  lawn  border,  rough- 
ened by  little  white  stars.  More  secretly  than  ever 
he  put  it  back;  and  for  the  first  time  looked  round. 
These  people!  They  belonged  to  a  world  that  he 
had  left.  They  gave  him  the  same  feeling  that  her 
uncle  and  aunt  had  given  him  just  now,  when  they 
said  good-night,  following  her  into  their  hotel. 
That  good  Colonel,  that  good  Mrs.  Ercott!  The 
very  concretion  of  the  world  he  had  been  brought 
up  in,  of  the  English  point  of  view;  symbolic  figures 
of  health,  reason,  and  the  straight  path,  on  which 
at  that  moment,  seemingly,  he  had  turned  his  back. 
The  Colonel's  profile,  ruddy  through  its  tan,  with 
grey  moustache  guiltless  of  any  wax,  his  cheery, 
high-pitched:  "Good-night,  young  Lennan!"  His 
wife's  curly  smile,  her  flat,  cosy,  confidential  voice 
— how  strange  and  remote  they  had  suddenly  be- 
come !  And  all  these  people  here,  chattering,  drink- 
ing— how  queer  and  far  away!  Or  was  it  just  that 
he  was  queer  and  remote  to  them? 

And  getting  up  from  his  table,  he  passed  the  fid- 
dlers with  the  dark-white  skins,  out  into  the  Place. 


II 

He  went  up  the  side  streets  to  the  back  of  her 
hotel,  and  stood  by  the  raiHngs  of  the  garden — one 
of  those  hotel  gardens  which  exist  but  to  figure  in 
advertisements,  with  its  few  arid  palms,  its  paths 


SUMMER  117 

staring  white  between  them,  and  a  fringe  of  dusty 
lilacs  and  mimosas. 

And  there  came  to  him  the  oddest  feeling — that 
he  had  been  there  before,  peering  through  blossoms 
at  those  staring  paths  and  shuttered  windows.  A 
scent  of  wood-smoke  was  abroad,  and  some  dry 
plant  rustled  ever  so  faintly  in  what  httle  wind  was 
stirring.  What  was  there  of  memory  in  this  night, 
this  garden?  Some  dark  sweet  thing,  invisible,  to 
feel  whose  presence  was  at  once  ecstasy,  and  the 
irritation  of  a  thirst  that  will  not  be  quenched. 

And  he  walked  on.  Houses,  houses!  At  last  he 
was  away  from  them,  alone  on  the  high  road,  be- 
yond the  limits  of  Monaco.  And  walking  thus 
through  the  night  he  had  thoughts  that  he  imagined 
no  one  had  ever  had  before  him.  The  knowledge 
that  she  loved  him  had  made  everything  seem  very 
sacred  and  responsible.  Whatever  he  did,  he  must 
not  harm  her.     Women  were  so  helpless! 

For  in  spite  of  six  years  of  art  in  Rome  and  Paris, 
he  still  had  a  fastidious  reverence  for  women.  If 
she  had  loved  her  husband  she  would  have  been 
safe  enough  from  him;  but  to  be  bound  to  a  com- 
panionship that  she  gave  unwillingly — this  had 
seemed  to  him  atrocious,  even  before  he  loved  her. 
How  could  any  husband  ask  that?  Have  so  little 
pride — so  little  pity?  The  unpardonable  thing! 
What  was  there  to  respect  in  such  a  marriage? 
Only,  he  must  not  do  her  harm!  But  now  that  her 
eyes  had  said,  I  love  you! — What  then?  It  was 
simply  miraculous  to  know  tliat,  under  the  stars  of 


Ii8  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

this  warm  Southern  night,  burning  its  incense  of 
trees  and  flowers! 

Climbing  up  above  the  road,  he  lay  down.  If 
only  she  were  there  beside  him!  The  fragrance  of 
the  earth  not  yet  chilled,  crept  to  his  face;  and  for 
just  a  moment  it  seemed  to  him  that  she  did  come. 
If  he  could  keep  her  there  for  ever  in  that  embrace 
that  was  no  embrace — in  that  ghostly  rapture,  on 
this  wild  fragrant  bed  that  no  lovers  before  had 
ever  pressed,  save  the  creeping  things,  and  the 
flowers;  save  sunlight  and  moonlight  with  their 
shadows;   and  the  wind  kissing  the  earth!  .  .  . 

Then  she  was  gone;  his  hands  touched  nothing 
but  the  crumbled  pine  dust,  and  the  flowers  of  the 
wild  thyme  fallen  into  sleep. 

He  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  little  cHff,  above  the 
road  between  the  dark  mountains  and  the  sea  black 
with  depth.  Too  late  for  any  passer-by;  as  far 
from  what  men  thought  and  said  and  did  as  the 
very  night  itself  with  its  whispering  warmth.  And 
he  conjured  up  her  face,  making  certain  of  it — the 
eyes,  clear  and  brown,  and  wide  apart;  the  close, 
sweet  mouth;  the  dark  hair;  the  whole  flying  love- 
liness. 

Then  he  leaped  down  into  the  road,  and  ran — • 
one  could  not  walk,  feeling  this  miracle,  that  no 
one  had  ever  felt  before,  the  miracle  of  love. 


SUMMER  119 


III 


In  their  most  reputable  hotel  'Le  Coeur  d'Or,' 
long  since  remodelled  and  renamed,  Mrs.  Ercott 
lay  in  her  brass-bound  bed  looking  by  starlight  at 
the  Colonel  in  his  brass-bound  bed.  Her  ears  were 
carefully  freed  from  the  pressure  of  her  pillow,  for 
she  thought  she  heard  a  mosquito.  Companion  for 
thirty  years  to  one  whose  life  had  been  feverishly 
punctuated  by  the  attentions  of  those  little  beasts, 
she  had  no  love  for  them.  It  was  the  one  subject 
on  which  perhaps  her  imagination  was  stronger  than 
her  common  sense.  For  in  fact  there  was  not,  and 
could  not  be,  a  mosquito,  since  the  first  thing  the 
Colonel  did,  on  arriving  at  any  place  farther  South 
than  Parallel  46  of  latitude,  was  to  open  the  win- 
dows very  wide,  and  nail  with  many  tiny  tacks  a 
piece  of  mosquito  netting  across  that  refreshing  space, 
while  she  held  him  firmly  by  the  coat-tails.  The 
fact  that  other  people  did  not  so  secure  their  win- 
dows did  not  at  all  trouble  the  Colonel,  a  true 
Englishman,  who  loved  to  act  in  his  own  way,  and 
to  think  in  the  ways  of  other  people.  After  that 
they  would  wait  till  night  came,  then  burn  a  pecul- 
iar little  lamp  with  a  peculiar  little  smell,  and,  in 
the  full  glare  of  the  gaslight,  stand  about  on  chairs, 
with  slippers,  and  their  eyes  fixed  on  true  or  imag- 
inary beasts.  Then  would  fall  little  slaps,  making 
little  messes,  and  little  joyous  or  doleful  cries  would 
arise:    "I've  got  that  one!"     "Oh,  John,  I  missed 


I20  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

him!"  And  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  the  Colonel, 
in  pyjamas,  and  spectacles  (only  worn  in  very  sol- 
enm  moments,  low  down  on  his  nose),  would  re- 
volve slowly,  turning  his  eyes,  with  that  look  in 
them  of  out-facing  death  which  he  had  so  long  ac- 
quired, on  every  inch  of  wall  and  ceihng,  till  at  last 
he  would  say:  "Well,  Dolly,  that's  the  lot!"  At 
which  she  would  say:  "Give  me  a  kiss,  dear!"  and 
he  would  kiss  her,  and  get  into  his  bed. 

There  was,  then,  no  mosquito,  save  that  general 
ghost  of  him  which  lingered  in  the  mind  of  one  de- 
voted to  her  husband.  Spying  out  his  profile,  for  he 
was  lying  on  his  back,  she  refrained  from  saying: 
*'John,  are  you  awake?"  A  whiffling  sound  was 
coming  from  a  nose,  to  which — originally  straight 
— attention  to  military  duties  had  given  a  shght 
crook,  half  an  inch  below  the  level  of  grizzled  eye- 
brows raised  a  httle,  as  though  surprised  at  the 
sounds  beneath.  She  could  hardly  see  him,  but 
she  thought:  "How  good  he  looks!"  And,  in  fact, 
he  did.  It  was  the  face  of  a  man  incapable  of  evil, 
ha\dng  in  its  sleep  the  candour  of  one  at  heart  a 
child — that  simple  candour  of  those  who  have  never 
known  how  to  seek  adventures  of  the  mind,  and 
have  always  sought  adventures  of  the  body.  Then 
somehow  she  did  say: 

' '  John !    Are  you  asleep  ?  " 

The  Colonel,  instantly  alive,  as  at  some  old- 
time  attack,  answered: 

"Yes." 

"That  poor  young  man!" 


SUMMER  121 

^^  Which?" 

"Mark  Lennan.    Haven't  you  seen?" 

"What?" 

"My  dear,  it  was  under  your  nose.  But  you 
never  do  see  these  things!" 

The  Colonel  slowly  turned  his  head.  His  wife 
was  an  imaginative  woman!  She  had  always  been 
so.  Dimly  he  perceived  that  something  romantic 
was  about  to  come  from  her.  But  with  that  al- 
most professional  gentleness  of  a  man  who  has  cut 
the  heads  and  arms  off  people  in  his  time,  he  an- 
swered : 

"What  things?" 

"He  picked  up  her  handkerchief." 

"Whose?" 

"Ohve's.  He  put  it  in  his  pocket.  I  distinctly 
saw  him." 

There  was  silence;  then  Mrs.  Ercott's  voice  rose 
again,  impersonal,  far  away. 

"What  always  astonishes  me  about  young  people 
is  the  way  they  think  they're  not  seen — ^poor  dears!" 

Still  there  was  silence. 

"John!    Are  you  thinking? " 

For  a  considerable  sound  of  breathing,  not  mere 
whiffling  now,  was  coming  from  the  Colonel — to  liis 
wife  a  sure  sign. 

And  indeed  he  was  thinking.  Dolly  was  an  im- 
aginative woman,  but  something  told  him  that  in 
this  case  she  might  not  be  riding  past  the  hounds. 

Mrs.  Ercott  raised  herself.  He  looked  more  good 
than  ever;   a  little  perplexed  frown  had  climbed  up 


122  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

with  his  eyebrows  and  got  caught  in  the  wrinkles 
across  his  forehead. 

"I'm  very  fond  of  Olive,"  he  said. 

Mrs.  Ercott  fell  back  on  her  pillows.  In  her 
heart  there  was  just  that  little  soreness  natural  to 
a  woman  over  fifty,  whose  husband  has  a  niece. 

"No  doubt,"  she  murmured. 

Something  vague  moved  deep  down  in  the  Colo- 
nel; he  stretched  out  his  hand.  In  that  strip  of 
gloom  between  the  beds  it  encountered  another 
hand,  which  squeezed  it  rather  hard. 

He  said:  "Look  here,  old  girl!"  and  there  was 
silence. 

Mrs.  Ercott  in  her  turn  was  thinking.  Her 
thoughts  were  flat  and  rapid  like  her  voice,  but  had 
that  sort  of  sentiment  which  accompanies  the  men- 
tal exercise  of  women  with  good  hearts.  Poor 
young  man!  And  poor  Olive!  But  was  a  woman 
ever  to  be  pitied,  when  she  was  so  pretty  as  that! 
Besides,  when  all  was  said  and  done,  she  had  a 
fine-looking  man  for  husband;  in  Parliament,  with 
a  career,  and  fond  of  her — decidedly.  And  their 
little  house  in  London,  so  close  to  Westminster,  was 
a  distinct  dear;  and  nothing  could  be  more  charm- 
ing than  their  cottage  by  the  river.  Was  Olive, 
then,  to  be  pitied?  And  yet — she  was  not  happy. 
It  was  no  good  pretending  that  she  was  happy. 
All  very  well  to  say  that  such  things  were  within 
one's  control,  but  if  you  read  novels  at  all,  you  knew 
they  weren't.  There  was  such  a  thing  as  incompat- 
ibility.    Oh  yes!    And  there  was  the  matter  of  dif- 


SUMMER  123 

ference  in  their  ages!  Olive  was  twenty-six,  Robert 
Cramier  forty-two.  And  now  this  young  Mark 
Lennan  was  in  love  with  her.  What  if  she  were  in 
love  with  him!  John  would  realize  then,  perhaps, 
that  the  young  flew  to  the  young.  For  men — even 
the  best,  like  John,  were  funny!  She  would  never 
dream  of  feehng  for  any  of  her  nephews  as  John 
clearly  felt  for  Olive. 

The  Colonel's  voice  broke  in  on  her  thoughts. 

"Nice  young  fellow — Lennan!  Great  pity!  Bet- 
ter sheer  off — if  he's  getting " 

And,  rather  suddenly,  she  answered: 

"Suppose  he  can't!" 

"Can't?" 

"Did  you  never  hear  of  a  'grande  passion'?^' 

The  Colonel  rose  on  his  elbow.  This  was  another 
of  those  occasions  that  showed  him  how,  during  the 
later  years  of  his  service  in  Madras  and  Upper 
Burmah,  when  Dolly's  health  had  not  been  equal 
to  the  heat,  she  had  picked  up  in  London  a  queer 
way  of  looking  at  things — as  if  they  were  not — not 
so  right  or  wrong  as — as  he  felt  them  to  be.  And 
he  repeated  those  two  French  words  in  his  own  way, 
adding : 

"Isn't  that  Just  what  I'm  saying?  The  sooner 
he  stands  clear,  the  better." 

But  Mrs.  Ercott,  too,  sat  up. 

"Be  human,"  she  said. 

The  Colonel  experienced  the  same  sensation  as 
when  one  suddenly  knows  that  one  is  not  digesting 
food.     Because   young   Lennan   was   in   danger   of 


124  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

getting  into  a  dishonourable  fix,  he  was  told  to  be 
human!  Really,  Dolly  was — !  The  white  blur  of 
her  new  boudoir  cap  suddenly  impinged  on  his  con- 
sciousness. Surely  she  was  not  getting — un-English ! 
At  her  time  of  life! 

"I'm  thinking  of  OHve,"  he  said;  "I  don't  want 
her  worried  with  that  sort  of  thing." 

"Perhaps  Ohve  can  manage  for  herself.  In  these 
days  it  doesn't  do  to  interfere  with  love." 

"Love!"  muttered  the  Colonel.     "What?  Phew!'* 

If  one's  own  wife  called  this — this  sort  of — thing, 
love — then,  why  had  he  been  faithful  to  her — in 
very  hot  climates — all  these  years?  A  sense  of 
waste,  and  of  injustice,  tried  to  rear  its  head  against 
all  the  side  of  him  that  attached  certain  meanings 
to  certain  words,  and  acted  up  to  them.  And  this 
revolt  gave  him  a  feeling,  strange  and  so  unpleasant. 
Love!  It  was  not  a  word  to  use  thus  loosely! 
Love  led  to  marriage;  this  could  not  lead  to  mar- 
riage, except  through — the  Divorce  Court.  And 
suddenly  the  Colonel  had  a  vision  of  his  dead 
brother  Lindsay,  Olive's  father,  standing  there  in 
the  dark,  with  his  grave,  clear-cut,  ivory-pale  face, 
under  the  black  hair  supposed  to  be  derived  from  a 
French  ancestress  who  had  escaped  from  the  mas- 
sacre of  St.  Bartholomew.  Upright  fellow  always, 
Lindsay — even  before  he  was  made  bishop!  Queer 
somehow  that  Olive  should  be  his  daughter.  Not 
that  she  was  not  upright;  not  at  all!  But  she  was 
soft!  Lindsay  was  not!  Imagine  him  seeing  that 
young  fellow  putting  her  handkerchief  in  his  pocket. 


SUMMER  125 

But  had  young  Lennan  really  done  such  a  thing? 
Dolly  was  imaginative!  He  had  mistaken  it  prob- 
ably for  his  own;  if  he  had  chanced  to  blow  his 
nose,  he  would  have  realized.  For,  coupled  with  the 
almost  child-like  candour  of  his  mind,  the  Colonel 
had  real  administrative  vigour,  a  true  sense  of  prac- 
tical values;  an  ounce  of  illustration  was  always 
worth  to  him  a  pound  of  theory!  Dolly  was  given 
to  riding  off  on  theories.  Thank  God!  she  never 
acted  on  'em! 

He  said  gently: 

"My  dear!  Young  Lennan  may  be  an  artist  and 
all  that,  but  he's  a  gentleman!  I  know  old  Heath- 
erley,  his  guardian.  Why  I  introduced  him  to 
Olive  myself!" 

"What  has  that  to  do  with  it?  He's  in  love  with 
her." 

One  of  the  countless  legion  that  hold  a  creed 
taken  at  face  value,  into  whose  roots  and  reasons 
they  have  never  dreamed  of  going,  the  Colonel  was 
staggered.  Like  some  native  on  an  island  sur- 
rounded by  troubled  seas,  which  he  has  stared  at 
with  a  certain  contemptuous  awe  all  his  life,  but 
never  entered,  he  was  disconcerted  by  thus  being 
asked  to  leave  the  shore.     And  by  his  own  wife! 

Indeed,  Mrs.  Ercott  had  not  intended  to  go  so 
far;  but  there  was  in  her,  as  in  all  women  whose 
minds  are  more  active  than  their  husbands',  a 
something  worrying  her  always  to  go  a  little  far- 
ther than  she  meant.  With  real  compunction  she 
heard  the  Colonel  say: 


126  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

"I  must  get  up  and  drink  some  water." 

She  was  out  of  bed  in  a  moment.  "Not  without 
boiHng!" 

She  had  seriously  troubled  him,  then!  Now  he 
would  not  sleep — the  blood  went  to  his  head  so 
quickly.  He  would  just  He  awake,  trying  not  to 
disturb  her.  She  could  not  bear  him  not  to  dis- 
turb her.  It  seemed  so  selfish  of  her!  She  ought 
to  have  known  that  the  whole  subject  was  too 
dangerous  to  discuss  at  night. 

She  became  conscious  that  he  was  standing  just 
behind  her;  his  figure  in  its  thin  covering  looked 
very  lean,  his  face  strangely  worn. 

"I'm  sorry  you  put  that  idea  into  my  head!'" 
he  said.     "I'm  fond  of  Olive." 

Again  Mrs.  Ercott  felt  that  jealous  twinge,  soon 
lost  this  time  in  the  motherliness  of  a  childless 
woman  for  her  husband.  He  must  not  be  troubled! 
He  should  not  be  troubled.    And  she  said: 

"The  water's  boiling!  Now  sip  a  good  glass 
slowly,  and  get  into  bed,  or  I'll  take  your  tempera- 
ture!" 

Obediently  the  Colonel  took  from  her  the  glass, 
and  as  he  sipped,  she  put  her  hand  up  and  stroked 
his  head. 

IV 

In  the  room  below  them  the  subject  of  their  dis- 
cussion was  lying  very  wide  awake.  She  knew  that 
she  had  betrayed  herself,  made  plain  to  Mark  Len- 


SUMMER  127 

nan  what  she  had  never  until  now  admitted  to  her- 
self. But  the  love-look,  which  for  the  life  of  her 
she  could  not  keep  back,  had  been  followed  by  a 
feehng  of  having  'lost  caste.'  For,  hitherto,  the 
world  of  women  had  been  strictly  divided  by  her 
into  those  who  did  and  those  who  did  not  do  such 
things;  and  to  be  no  longer  quite  sure  to  which  half 
she  belonged  was  frightening.  But  what  was  the 
good  of  thinking,  of  being  frightened? — it  could  not 
lead  to  anything.  Yesterday  she  had  not  known 
this  would  come;  and  now  she  could  not  guess  at 
to-morrow!  To-night  was  enough!  To-night  with 
its  swimming  loveliness!  Just  to  feel!  To  love, 
and  to  be  loved! 

A  new  sensation  for  her — as  different  from  those 
excited  by  the  courtships  of  her  girlhood,  or  by  her 
marriage,  as  light  from  darkness.  For  she  had  never 
been  in  love,  not  even  with  her  husband.  She  knew 
it  now.  The  sun  was  shining  in  a  world  where  she 
had  thought  there  was  none.  Nothing  could  come 
of  it.  But  the  sun  was  shining;  and  in  that  sun- 
shine she  must  warm  herself  a  little. 

Quite  simply  she  began  to  plan  what  he  and  she 
would  do.  There  were  six  days  left.  They  had  not 
yet  been  to  Gorbio,  nor  to  Castellar — none  of  those 
long  walks  or  rides  they  had  designed  to  do  for  the 
beauty  of  them.  Would  he  come  early  to-morrow? 
What  could  they  do  together?  No  one  should  know 
what  these  six  days  would  be  to  her — not  even  he. 
To  be  with  him,  watch  his  face,  hear  his  voice,  and 
now  and  then  just  touch  him!     She  could  trust  her- 


128  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

self  to  show  no  one.  And  then,  it  would  be — over! 
Though,  of  course,  she  would  see  him  again  in 
London. 

And,  lying  there  in  the  dark,  she  thought  of  their 
first  meeting,  one  Sunday  morning,  in  Hyde  Park. 
The  Colonel  religiously  observed  Church  Parade, 
and  would  even  come  all  the  way  down  to  West- 
minster, from  his  flat  near  Knightsbridge,  in  order 
to  fetch  his  niece  up  to  it.  She  remembered  how, 
during  their  stroll,  he  had  stopped  suddenly  in  front 
of  an  old  gentleman  with  a  puffy  yellow  face  and 
eyes  half  open. 

"Ah!  Mr.  Heatherley — you  up  from  Devonshire? 
How's  your  nephew — the — er — sculptor?" 

And  the  old  gentleman,  glaring  a  little,  as  it  seemed 
to  her,  from  under  his  eyelids  and  his  grey  top  hat, 
had  answered:  "Colonel  Ercott,  I  think?  Here's 
the  fellow  himself — Mark!"  And  a  young  man  had 
taken  off  his  hat.  She  had  only  noticed  at  first 
that  his  dark  hair  grew — not  long — but  very  thick; 
and  that  his  eyes  were  very  deep-set.  Then  she 
saw  him  smile;  it  made  his  face  all  eager,  yet  left 
it  shy;  and  she  decided  that  he  was  nice.  Soon 
after,  she  had  gone  with  the  Ercotts  to  see  his 
'things';  for  it  was,  of  course,  and  especially  in 
those  days,  quite  an  event  to  know  a  sculptor — 
rather  Hke  having  a  zebra  in  your  park.  The  Colo- 
nel had  been  delighted  and  a  little  reheved  to  find 
that  the  '  things '  were  nearly  all  of  beasts  and  birds. 
"Very  interestin'"  to  one  full  of  curious  lore  about 
such,  having  in  his  time  killed  many  of  them,  and 


SUMMER  129 

finding  himself  at  the  end  of  it  with  a  curious  aver- 
sion to  kilHng  any  more — which  he  never  put  into 
words. 

Acquaintanceship  had  ripened  fast  after  that 
first  visit  to  his  studio,  and  now  it  was  her  turn  to 
be  relieved  that  Mark  Lennan  devoted  himself  al- 
most entirely  to  beasts  and  birds  instead  of  to  the 
human  form,  so-called  divine.  Ah!  yes — she  would 
have  suffered;  now  that  she  loved  him,  she  saw 
that.  At  all  events  she  could  watch  his  work 
and  help  it  with  sympathy.  That  could  not  be 
wrong.  .  .  . 

She  fell  asleep  at  last,  and  dreamed  that  she  was 
in  a  boat  alone  on  the  river  near  her  country  cot- 
tage, drifting  along  among  spiky  flowers  like  aspho- 
dels, with  birds  singing  and  flying  round  her.  She 
could  move  neither  face  nor  limbs,  but  that  helpless 
feeling  was  not  unpleasant,  till  she  became  conscious 
that  she  was  drawing  nearer  and  nearer  to  what  was 
neither  water  nor  land,  light  nor  darkness,  but  sim- 
ply some  unutterable  feeling.  And  then  she  saw, 
gazing  at  her  out  of  the  rushes  on  the  banks,  a 
great  bull  head.  It  moved  as  she  moved — it  was 
on  both  sides  of  her,  yet  all  the  time  only  one  head. 
She  tried  to  raise  her  hands  and  cover  her  eyes, 
but  could  not — and  woke  with  a  sob.  ...  It  was 
Hght. 

Nearly  six  o'clock  already!  Her  dream  made  her 
disinclined  to  trust  again  to  sleep.  Sleep  was  a 
robber  now — of  each  minute  of  these  few  days !  She 
got  up,  and  looked  out.     The  morning  was  fine,  the 


130  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

air  warm  already,  sweet  with  dew,  and  heliotrope 
nailed  to  the  wall  outside  her  window.  She  had  but 
to  open  her  shutters  and  walk  into  the  sun.  She 
dressed,  took  her  sunshade,  stealthily  slipped  the 
shutters  back,  and  stole  forth.  Shunning  the  hotel 
garden,  where  the  eccentricity  of  her  early  wander- 
ing might  betray  the  condition  of  her  spirit,  she 
passed  through  into  the  road  toward  the  Casino. 
Without  perhaps  knowing  it,  she  was  making  for 
where  she  had  sat  with  him  yesterday  afternoon, 
listening  to  the  band.  Hatless,  but  defended  by 
her  sunshade,  she  excited  the  admiration  of  the  few 
connoisseurs  as  yet  abroad,  strolling  in  blue  blouses 
to  their  labours;  and  this  simple  admiration  gave 
her  pleasure.  For  once  she  was  really  conscious  of 
the  grace  in  her  own  limbs,  actually  felt  the  gentle 
vividness  of  her  own  face,  with  its  nearly  black  hair 
and  eyes,  and  creamy  skin — strange  sensation,  and 
very  comforting  I 

In  the  Casino  gardens  she  walked  more  slowly, 
savouring  the  aromatic  trees,  and  stopping  to  bend 
and  look  at  almost  every  flower;  then,  on  the  seat, 
where  she  had  sat  with  him  yesterday,  she  rested. 
A  few  paces  away  were  the  steps  that  led  to  the 
railway-station,  trodden  upwards  eagerly  by  so 
many,  day  after  day,  night  after  night,  and  lightly 
or  sorrowfully  descended.  Above  her,  two  pines, 
a  pepper-tree,  and  a  palm  mingled  their  shade — so 
fantastic  the  jumbling  of  trees  and  souls  in  this 
strange  place!  She  furled  her  sunshade  and  leaned 
back.    Her   gaze,    free   and  friendly,  passed  from 


SUMMER  131 

bough  to  bough.  Against  the  bright  sky,  unbe- 
sieged  as  yet  by  heat  or  dust,  they  had  a  spiritual 
look,  lying  sharp  and  flat  along  the  air.  She  plucked 
a  cluster  of  pinkish  berries  from  the  pepper-tree, 
crushing  and  rubbing  them  between  her  hands  to 
get  their  fragrance.  All  these  beautiful  and  sweet 
things  seemed  to  be  a  part  of  her  joy  at  being  loved, 
part  of  this  sudden  summer  in  her  heart.  The  sky, 
the  flowers,  that  jewel  of  green-blue  sea,  the  bright 
acacias,  were  nothing  in  the  world  but  love. 

And  those  few  who  passed,  and  saw  her  sitting 
there  under  the  pepper-tree,  wondered  no  doubt  at 
the  stillness  of  this  dame  Hen  mise,  who  had  risen 
so  early. 

V 

In  the  small  hours,  which  so  many  wish  were 
smaller,  the  Colonel  had  awakened,  with  the  af- 
fair of  the  handkerchief  swelling  visibly.  His  niece's 
husband  was  not  a  man  that  he  had  much  Hking 
for — a  taciturn  fellow,  with  possibly  a  bit  of  the 
brute  in  him,  a  man  who  rather  rode  people  down; 
but,  since  Dolly  and  he  were  in  charge  of  Olive,  the 
notion  that  young  Lennan  was  falling  in  love  with 
her  under  their  very  noses  was  alarming  to  one  nat- 
urally punctilious.  It  was  not  until  he  fell  asleep 
again,  and  woke  in  full  morning  light,  that  the 
remedy  occurred  to  him.  She  must  be  taken  out  of 
herself!  Dolly  and  he  had  been  slack;  too  inter- 
ested in  this  queer  place,  this  queer  lot  of  people! 


132  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

They  had  neglected  her,  left  her  to  .  .  .  Boys  and  girls! 
— One  ought  always  to  remember.  But  it  was  not 
too  late.  She  was  old  Lindsay's  daughter;  would 
not  forget  herself.  Poor  old  Lindsay — fine  fellow; 
bit  too  much,  perhaps,  of  the — Huguenot  in  him! 
Queer,  those  throw-backs!  Had  noticed  in  horses, 
time  and  again — white  hairs  about  the  tail,  carriage 
of  the  head — skip  generations  and  then  pop  out. 
And  Olive  had  something  of  his  look — the  same 
ivory  skin,  same  colour  of  eyes  and  hair!  Only  she 
was  not  severe,  like  her  father,  not  exactly!  And 
once  more  there  shot  through  the  Colonel  a  vague 
dread,  as  of  a  trusteeship  neglected.  It  disappeared, 
however,  in  his  bath. 

He  was  out  before  eight  o'clock,  a  thin  upright 
figure  in  hard  straw  hat  and  grey  flannel  clothes, 
walking  with  the  indescribable  loose  poise  of  the 
soldier  Englishman,  with  that  air,  different  from  the 
French,  German,  what  not,  because  of  shoulders 
ever  asserting,  through  their  drill,  the  right  to  put 
on  mufti;  with  that  perfectly  quiet  and  modest  air 
of  knowing  that,  whatever  might  be  said,  there  was 
only  one  way  of  wearing  clothes  and  moving  legs. 
And,  as  he  walked,  he  smoothed  his  drooping  grey 
moustache,  considering  how  best  to  take  his  niece 
out  of  herself.  He  passed  along  by  the  Terrace, 
and  stood  for  a  moment  looking  down  at  the  sea 
beyond  the  pigeon-shooting  ground.  Then  he  moved 
on  round  under  the  Casino  into  the  gardens  at  the 
back.  A  beautiful  spot!  Wonderful  care  they  had 
taken  with  the  plants!    It  made  him  think  a  little 


SUMMER  133 

of  Tushawore,  where  his  old  friend  the  Rajah — 
precious  old  rascal! — had  gardens  to  his  palace 
rather  like  these.  He  paced  again  to  the  front. 
It  was  nice  and  quiet  in  the  early  mornings,  with 
the  sea  down  there,  and  nobody  trying  to  get  the 
better  of  anybody  else.  There  were  fellows  never 
happy  unless  they  were  doing  someone  in  the  eye. 
He  had  known  men  who  would  ride  at  the  devil 
himself,  make  it  a  point  of  honour  to  swindle  a  friend 
out  of  a  few  pounds!  Odd  place  this  'Monte' — 
sort  of  a  Garden  of  Eden  gone  wrong.  And  all 
the  real,  but  quite  inarticulate  love  of  Nature,  which 
had  supported  the  Colonel  through  deserts  and  jun- 
gles, on  transports  at  sea,  and  in  mountain  camps, 
avv^oke  in  the  sweetness  of  these  gardens.  His  dear 
mother!  He  had  never  forgotten  the  words  with 
which  she  had  shown  him  the  sunset  through  the 
coppice  down  at  old  Withes  Norton,  when  he  was 
nine  years  old:  "That  is  beauty.  Jack!  Do  you 
feel  it,  darling?"  He  had  not  felt  it  at  the  time — 
not  he;  a  thick-headed,  scampering  youngster. 
Even  when  he  first  went  to  India  he  had  had  no 
eye  for  a  sunset.  The  rising  generation  were  dif- 
ferent. That  young  couple,  for  instance,  under  the 
pepper-tree,  sitting  there  without  a  word,  just  look- 
ing at  the  trees.  How  long,  he  wondered,  had  they 
been  sitting  like  that?  x\nd  suddenly  something  in 
the  Colonel  leaped;  his  steel-coloured  eyes  took  on 
their  look  of  out-facing  death.  Choking  down  a 
cough,  he  faced  about,  back  to  where  he  had  stood 
above  the  pigeon-shooting  ground.  .  .  .  Olive  and 


134  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

that  young  fellow!  An  assignation!  At  this  time 
in  the  morning!  The  earth  reeled.  His  brother's 
child — his  favourite  niece!  The  woman  whom  he 
most  admired — the  woman  for  whom  his  heart  was 
softest.  Leaning  over  the  stone  parapet,  no  longer 
seeing  either  the  smooth  green  of  the  pigeon-shooting 
ground,  or  the  smooth  blue  of  the  sea  beyond,  he 
was  moved,  distressed,  bewildered  beyond  words. 
Before  breakfast!  That  was  the  devil  of  it!  Con- 
fession, as  it  were,  of  everything.  Moreover,  he 
had  seen  their  hands  touching  on  the  seat.  The 
blood  rushed  up  to  his  face;  he  had  seen,  spied  out, 
what  was  not  intended  for  his  eyes.  Nice  position 
— that!  Dolly,  too,  last  night,  had  seen.  But  that 
was  different.  Women  might  see  things — it  was 
expected  of  them.  But  for  a  man — a — a  gentle- 
man! The  fullness  of  his  embarrassment  gradually 
disclosed  itself.  His  hands  were  tied.  Could  he 
even  consult  Dolly?  He  had  a  feehng  of  isolation, 
of  utter  solitude.  Nobody — not  anybody  in  the 
world — could  understand  his  secret  and  intense  dis- 
comfort. To  take  up  a  position — the  position  he 
was  bound  to  take  up,  as  Ohve's  nearest  relative 
and  protector,  and — what  was  it — chaperon,  by  the 
aid  of  knowledge  come  at  in  such  a  way,  however 
unintentionally!  Never  in  all  his  days  in  the  regi- 
ment— and  many  delicate  matters  affecting  honour 
had  come  his  way — had  he  had  a  thing  like  this  to 
deal  with.  Poor  child!  But  he  had  no  business  to 
think  of  her  like  that.  No,  indeed!  She  had  not 
behaved — as —    And    there    he    paused,    curiously 


SUMMER  135 

unable  to  condemn  her.     Suppose  they  got  up  and 
came  that  way! 

He  took  his  hands  off  the  stone  parapet,  and 
made  for  his  hotel.  His  palms  were  white  from  the 
force  of  his  grip.  He  said  to  himself  as  he  went 
along:  "I  must  consider  the  whole  question  calmly; 
I  must  think  it  out."  This  gave  him  relief.  With 
young  Lennan,  at  all  events,  he  could  be  angry. 
But  even  there  he  found,  to  his  dismay,  no  finality 
of  judgment.  And  this  absence  of  finality,  so  un- 
wonted, distressed  him  horribly.  There  was  some- 
thing in  the  way  the  young  man  had  been  sitting 
there  beside  her — so  quiet,  so  almost  timid — that 
had  touched  him.  This  was  bad,  by  Jove — very 
bad!  The  two  of  them,  they  made,  somehow,  a 
nice  couple!  Confound  it!  This  would  not  do! 
The  chaplain  of  the  little  English  church,  passing  at 
this  moment,  called  out,  "Fine  morning.  Colonel 
Ercott."  The  Colonel  saluted,  and  did  not  answer. 
The  greeting  at  the  moment  seemed  to  him  paltry. 
No  morning  could  be  fine  that  contained  such  a 
discovery.  He  entered  the  hotel,  passed  into  the 
dining-room,  and  sat  down.  Nobody  was  there. 
They  all  had  their  breakfast  upstairs,  even  Dolly. 
Olive  alone  was  in  the  habit  of  supporting  him  while 
he  ate  an  English  breakfast.  And  suddenly  he  per- 
ceived that  he  was  face  to  face  already  with  this 
dreadful  situation.  To  have  breakfast  without,  as 
usual,  waiting  for  her,  seemed  too  pointed.  She 
might  be  coming  in  at  any  minute  now.  To  wait 
for  her,  and  have  it,  without  showing  anything — 
how  could  he  do  that? 


136  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

He  was  conscious  of  a  faint  rustling  behind  him. 
There  she  was,  and  nothing  decided.  In  this  mo- 
ment of  hopeless  confusion  the  Colonel  acted  by 
pure  instinct,  rose,  patted  her  cheek,  and  placed  a 
chair. 

"WeU,  my  dear,"  he  said;   "hungry?" 

She  was  looking  very  dainty,  very  soft.  That 
creamy  dress  showed  off  her  dark  hair  and  eyes,  which 
seemed  somehow  to  be — flying  off  somewhere;  yes 
— it  was  queer,  but  that  was  the  only  way  to  put  it. 
He  got  no  reassurance,  no  comfort,  from  the  sight 
of  her.  And  slowly  he  stripped  the  skin  from  the 
banana  with  which  he  always  commenced  break- 
fast. One  might  just  as  well  be  asked  to  shoot  a 
tame  dove  or  tear  a  pretty  flower  to  pieces  as  be 
expected  to  take  her  to  task,  even  if  he  could,  in 
honour.    And  he  sought  refuge  in  the  words: 

"Been  out?"  Then  could  have  bitten  his  tongue 
off.     Suppose  she  answered:   "No." 

But  she  did  not  so  answer.  The  colour  came 
into  her  cheeks,  indeed,  but  she  nodded:  "It's  so 
lovely!" 

How  pretty  she  looked  saying  that!  He  had  put 
himself  out  of  court  now — could  never  tell  her  what 
he  had  seen,  after  setting,  as  it  were,  that  trap  for 
her;   and  presently  he  asked: 

"Got  any  plans  to-day?" 

She  answered,  without  flinching  in  the  least: 

"Mark  Lennan  and  I  were  going  to  take  mules 
from  Mentone  up  to  Gorbio." 

He  was  amazed  at  her  steadiness — never,  to  his 


SUMMER  137 

knowledge,  having  encountered  a  woman  armoured 
at  every  point  to  preserve  a  love  that  flies  against 
the  world.  How  tell  what  was  under  her  smile! 
And  in  confusion  of  feeling  that  amounted  almost 
to  pain  he  heard  her  say: 

"Will  you  and  Aunt  Dolly  come?" 

Between  sense  of  trusteeship  and  hatred  of  spoil- 
ing sport;  between  knowledge  of  the  danger  she 
was  in  and  half-pitying  admiration  at  the  sight  of 
her;  between  real  disapproval  of  an  illicit  and  un- 
derhand business  (what  else  was  it,  after  all?)  and 
some  dim  perception  that  here  was  something  he 
did  not  begin  to  be  able  to  fathom — something  that 
perhaps  no  one  but  those  two  themselves  could  deal 
with — between  these  various  extremes  he  was  lost 
indeed.    And  he  stammered  out: 

"I  must  ask  your  aunt;  she's — she's  not  very 
good  on  a  mule." 

Then,  in  an  impulse  of  sheer  affection,  he  said 
with  startling  suddenness:  "My  dear,  I've  often 
meant  to  ask,  are  you  happy  at  home?" 

"At  home?" 

There  was  something  sinister  about  the  way  she 
repeated  that,  as  if  the  word  "home"  were  strange 
to  her. 

She  drank  her  coffee  and  got  up;  and  the  Colo- 
nel felt  afraid  of  her,  standing  there — afraid  of 
what  she  was  going  to  tell  him.  He  grew  very  red. 
But,  worse  than  all,  she  said  absolutely  nothing; 
only  shrugged  her  shoulders  with  a  little  smile  that 
went  to  his  heart. 


138  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

VI 

On  the  wild  thyme,  under  the  oHves  below  the 
rock  village  of  Gorbio,  with  their  mules  cropping  at 
a  little  distance,  those  two  sat  after  their  lunch, 
listening  to  the  cuckoos.  Since  their  uncanny  chance 
meeting  that  morning  in  the  gardens,  when  they  sat 
with  their  hands  just  touching,  amazed  and  elated 
by  their  own  good  fortune,  there  was  not  much  need 
to  say  what  they  felt,  to  break  with  words  this  rap- 
ture of  belonging  to  each  other — so  shyly,  so  wildly, 
so,  as  it  were,  without  reality.  They  were  like  epi- 
cures with  old  wine  in  their  glasses,  not  yet  tired 
of  its  fragrance  and  the  spell  of  anticipation. 

And  so  their  talk  was  not  of  love,  but,  in  that 
pathetic  way  of  star-crossed  lovers,  of  the  things 
they  loved;  leaving  out — each  other. 

It  was  the  telhng  of  her  dream  that  brought  the 
words  from  him  at  last;  but  she  drew  away,  and 
answered : 

"It  can't— it  mustn't  be!" 

Then  he  just  clung  to  her  hand;  and  presently, 
seeing  that  her  eyes  were  wet,  took  courage  enough 
to  kiss  her  cheek. 

TrembHng  and  fugitive  indeed  that  first  passage 
of  their  love.  Not  much  of  the  conquering  male  in 
him,  nor  in  her  of  the  ordinary  enchantress. 

And  then  they  went,  outwardly  sober  enough, 
riding  their  mules  down  the  stony  slopes  back  to 
Mentone. 


SUMMER  139 

But  in  the  grey,  dusty  railway-carriage  when  she 
had  left  him,  he  was  like  a  man  drugged,  staring  at 
where  she  had  sat  opposite. 

Two  hours  later,  at  dinner  in  her  hotel,  between 
her  and  Mrs.  Ercott,  with  the  Colonel  opposite,  he 
knew  for  the  first  time  what  he  was  faced  with.  To 
watch  every  thought  that  passed  within  him,  lest 
it  should  by  the  slightest  sign  betray  him;  to  regu- 
late and  veil  every  look  and  every  word  he  spoke 
to  her;  never  for  a  second  to  forget  that  these  other 
persons  were  actual  and  dangerous,  not  merely  the  in- 
significant and  grotesque  shadows  that  they  seemed. 
It  would  be  perhaps  for  ever  a  part  of  his  love  for 
her  to  seem  not  to  love  her.  He  did  not  dare  dream 
of  fulfilment.  He  w^as  to  be  her  friend,  and  try  to 
bring  her  happiness — burn  and  long  for  her,  and  not 
think  about  reward.  This  was  his  first  real  over- 
whelming passion — so  different  to  the  loves  of  spring 
— and  he  brought  to  it  all  that  naivete,  that  touch- 
ing quality  of  young  Englishmen,  whose  secret  in- 
stinct it  is  to  back  away  from  the  full  nature  of 
love,  even  from  admitting  that  it  has  that  nature. 
They  two  were  to  love,  and — not  to  love!  For  the 
first  time  he  understood 'a  little  of  what  that  meant. 
A  few  stolen  adoring  minutes  now  and  then,  and, 
for  the  rest,  the  presence  of  a  world  that  must  be 
deceived.  Already  he  had  almost  a  hatred  of  that 
orderly,  brown-faced  Colonel,  with  his  eyes  that 
looked  so  steady  and  saw  nothing;  of  that  flat, 
kindly  lady,  who  talked  so  pleasantly  throughout 
dinner,  saying  things  that  he  had  to  answer  with- 


I40  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

out  knowing  what  they  signified.  He  realized,  with 
a  sense  of  shock,  that  he  was  deprived  of  all  inter- 
ests in  life  but  one;  not  even  his  work  had  any- 
meaning  apart  from  her.  It  ht  no  fire  within  him 
to  hear  Mrs.  Ercott  praise  certain  execrable  pic- 
tures in  the  Royal  Academy,  which  she  had  relig- 
iously visited  the  day  before  leaving  home.  And 
as  the  interminable  meal  wore  on,  he  began  even 
to  feel  grief  and  wonder  that  Olive  could  be  so  smi- 
ling, so  gay,  and  calm;  so,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  in- 
different to  this  intolerable  impossibility  of  exchan- 
ging even  one  look  of  love.  Did  she  really  love  him — 
could  she  love  him,  and  show  not  one  little  sign  of 
it?  And  suddenly  he  felt  her  foot  touch  his  own. 
It  was  the  faintest  sidelong,  supplicating  pressure, 
withdrawn  at  once,  but  it  said:  'I  know  what  you 
are  suffering;  I,  too,  but  I  love  you.'  Characteris- 
tically, he  felt  that  it  cost  her  dear  to  make  use  of 
that  little  primitive  device  of  common  loves;  the 
touch  awoke  within  him  only  chivalry.  He  would 
burn  for  ever  sooner  than  cause  her  the  pain  of 
thinking  that  he  was  not  happy. 

After  dinner,  they  sat  out  on  a  balcony.  The  stars 
glowed  above  the  palms;  a  frog  was  croaking.  He 
managed  to  draw  his  chair  so  that  he  could  look  at 
her  unseen.  How  deep,  and  softly  dark  her  eyes, 
when  for  a  second  they  rested  on  his!  A  moth  set- 
tled on  her  knee — a  cunning  little  creature,  with  its 
hooded,  horned  owl's  face,  and  tiny  black  slits  of 
eyes!  Would  it  have  come  so  confidingly  to  any- 
one but  her?  The  Colonel  knew  its  name — he  had 
collected  it.     Very  common,  he  said.    The  interest 


SUMMER  141 

in  it  passed;  but  Lennan  stayed,  bent  forward, 
gazing  at  that  silk-covered  knee. 

The  voice  of  Mrs.  Ercott,  sharper  than  its  wont, 
said:  "What  day  does  Robert  say  he  wants  you 
back,  my  dear?" 

He  managed  to  remain  gazing  at  the  moth,  even 
to  take  it  gently  from  her  knee,  while  he  listened  to 
her  calm  answer. 

"Tuesday,  I  beheve." 

Then  he  got  up,  and  let  the  moth  fly  into  the 
darkness;  his  hands  and  lips  were  trembling,  and 
he  was  afraid  of  their  being  seen.  He  had  never 
known,  had  not  dreamed,  of  such  a  violent,  sick 
feeling.  That  this  man  could  thus  hale  her  home 
at  will!  It  was  grotesque,  fantastic,  awful,  but — it 
was  true!  Next  Tuesday  she  would  journey  back 
away  from  him  to  be  again  at  the  mercy  of  her  Fate  1 
The  pain  of  this  thought  made  him  grip  the  railing, 
and  grit  his  teeth,  to  keep  himself  from  crying  out. 
And  another  thought  came  to  him:  I  shall  have  to 
go  about  with  this  feeling,  day  and  night,  and  keep 
it  secret. 

They  were  saying  good-night;  and  he  had  to 
smirk  and  smile,  and  pretend — to  her  above  all — 
that  he  was  happy,  and  he  could  see  that  she  knew 
it  was  pretence. 

Then  he  was  alone,  with  the  feeling  that  he  had 
failed  her  at  the  first  shot;  torn,  too,  between  horror 
of  what  he  suddenly  saw  before  him,  and  longing 
to  be  back  in  her  presence  at  any  cost.  .  .  .  And 
all  this  on  the  day  of  that  first  kiss  which  had 
seemed  to  him  to  make  her  so  utterly  his  own. 


142  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

He  sat  down  on  a  bench  facing  the  Casino.  Nei- 
ther the  lights,  nor  the  people  passing  in  and  out, 
not  even  the  gipsy  bandsmen's  music,  distracted  his 
thoughts  for  a  second.  Could  it  be  less  than  twenty- 
four  hours  since  he  had  picked  up  her  handkerchief, 
not  thirty  yards  away?  In  that  twenty-four  hours 
he  seemed  to  have  known  every  emotion  that  man 
could  feel.  And  in  all  the  world  there  was  now  not 
one  soul  to  whom  he  could  speak  his  real  thoughts 
— not  even  to  her,  because  from  her,  beyond  all, 
he  must  keep  at  any  cost  all  knowledge  of  his  un- 
happiness.  So  this  was  illicit  love — as  it  was  called ! 
Loneliness,  and  torture!  Not  jealousy — for  her 
heart  was  his;  but  amazement,  outrage,  fear.  End- 
less lonely  suffering!  And  nobody,  if  they  knew, 
would  care,  or  pity  him  one  jot ! 

Was  there  really,  then,  as  the  ancients  thought, 
a  Daemon  that  liked  to  play  with  men,  as  men  liked 
to  stir  an  earwig  and  turn  it  over  and  put  a  foot  on 
it  in  the  end? 

He  got  up  and  made  his  way  towards  the  rail- 
way-station. There  was  the  bench  where  she  had 
been  sitting  when  he  came  on  her  that  very  morn- 
ing. The  stars  in  their  courses  had  seemed  to  fight 
for  them  then;  but  whether  for  joy  he  no  longer 
knew.  And  there  on  the  seat  were  still  the  pepper 
berries  she  had  crushed  and  strewn.  He  broke  off 
another  bunch  and  bruised  them.  That  scent  was 
the  ghost  of  sacred  minutes  when  her  hand  lay 
against  his  own.  The  stars  in  their  courses — for 
joy  or  sorrow! 


SUMMER  143 

VII 

There  was  no  peace  now  for  Colonel  and  Mrs. 
Ercott.  They  felt  themselves  conspirators,  and  of 
conspiracy  they  had  never  had  the  habit.  Yet  how 
could  they  openly  deal  with  anxieties  which  had 
arisen  solely  from  what  they  had  chanced  secretly 
to  see?  What  was  not  intended  for  one's  eyes  and 
ears  did  not  exist;  no  canon  of  conduct  could  be 
quite  so  sacred.  As  well  defend  the  opening  of  an- 
other person's  letters  as  admit  the  possibility  of 
making  use  of  adventitious  knowledge.  So  far  tra- 
dition, and  indeed  character,  made  them  feel  at 
one,  and  conspire  freely.  But  they  diverged  on  a 
deeper  plane.  Mrs.  Ercott  had  said,  indeed,  that 
here  was  something  which  could  not  be  controlled; 
the  Colonel  had/e//  it — a  very  different  thing!  Less 
tolerant  in  theory,  he  was  touched  at  heart;  Mrs. 
Ercott,  in  theory  almost  approving — she  read  that 
dangerous  authoress,  George  Eliot — at  heart  felt 
cold  towards  her  husband's  niece.  For  these  rea- 
sons they  could  not  in  fact  conspire  without,  in  the 
end,  saying  suddenly:  "Well,  it's  no  good  talking 
about  it!"  and  almost  at  once  beginning  to  talk 
about  it  again. 

In  proposing  to  her  that  mule,  the  Colonel  had 
not  had  time,  or,  rather,  not  quite  con\iction  enough 
as  to  his  line  of  action,  to  explain  so  immediately 
the  new  need  for  her  to  sit  upon  it.  It  was  only 
when,  to  his  somewhat  strange  relief,  she  had  re- 


144  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

fused  the  expedition,  and  Olive  had  started  without 
them,  that  he  told  her  of  the  meeting  in  the  Gar- 
dens, of  which  he  had  been  witness.  She  then  said 
at  once  that  if  she  had  known  she  would,  of  course, 
have  put  up  with  anything  in  order  to  go;  not  be- 
cause she  approved  of  interfering,  but  because  they 
must  think  of  Robert!    And  the  Colonel  had  said: 

"D n  the  fellow!"    And  there  the  matter  had 

rested  for  the  moment,  for  both  of  them  were  won- 
dering a  little  which  fellow  it  was  that  he  had 
damned.  That  indeed  was  the  trouble.  If  the 
Colonel  had  not  cared  so  much  about  his  niece, 
and  had  liked,  instead  of  rather  disliking  Cramier; 
if  Mrs.  Ercott  had  not  found  Mark  Lennan  a  'nice 
boy,'  and  had  not  secretly  felt  her  husband's  niece 
rather  dangerous  to  her  peace  of  mind;  if,  in  few 
words,  those  three  had  been  puppets  made  of  wood 
and  worked  by  law,  it  would  have  been  so  much 
simpler  for  all  concerned.  It  was  the  discovery 
that  there  was  a  personal  equation  in  such  matters, 
instead  of  just  a  simple  rule  of  three,  which  disor- 
ganized the  Colonel  and  made  him  almost  angry; 
which  depressed  Mrs.  Ercott  and  made  her  almost 
silent.  .  .  .  These  two  good  souls  had  stumbled  on 
a  problem  which  has  divided  the  world  from  birth. 
Shall  cases  be  decided  on  their  individual  merits, 
or  according  to  formal  codes? 

Beneath  an  appearance  and  a  vocabulary  more 
orthodox  than  ever,  the  Colonel's  allegiance  to  Au- 
thority and  the  laws  of  Form  was  really  shaken; 
he  simply  could  not  get  out  of  his  head  the  sight 


SUMMER  145 

of  those  two  young  people  sitting  side  by  side,  nor 
the  tone  of  Ohve's  voice,  when  she  had  repeated 
his  regrettable  words  about  happiness  at  home. 

If  only  the  thing  had  not  been  so  human !  If  only 
she  had  been  someone  else's  niece,  it  would  clearly 
have  been  her  duty  to  remain  unhappy.  As  it  was, 
the  more  he  thought,  the  less  he  knew  what  to 
think,  A  man  who  had  never  had  any  balance  to 
speak  of  at  his  bank,  and  from  the  nomadic  condi- 
tion of  his  life  had  no  exaggerated  feeling  for  a  set- 
tled social  status — deeming  Society  in  fact  rather 
a  bore — he  did  not  unduly  exaggerate  the  worldly 
dangers  of  this  affair;  neither  did  he  honestly  be- 
lieve that  she  would  burn  in  everlasting  torment  if 
she  did  not  succeed  in  remaining  true  to  '  that  great 
black  chap,'  as  he  secretly  called  Cramier.  His  feel- 
ing was  simply  that  it  was  an  awful  pity;  a  sort  of 
unhappy  conviction  that  it  was  not  like  the  women 
of  his  family  to  fall  upon  such  ways;  that  his  dead 
brother  would  turn  in  his  grave;  in  two  words  that 
it  was  'not  done.'  Yet  he  was  by  no  means  of  those 
who,  giving  latitude  to  women  in  general,  fall  with 
whips  on  those  of  their  own  family  who  take  it. 
On  the  contrary,  believing  that  'Woman  in  general' 
should  be  stainless  to  the  world's  eye,  he  was  in- 
clined to  make  allowance  for  any  individual  woman 
that  he  knew  and  loved.  A  suspicion  he  had  al- 
ways entertained,  that  Cramier  was  not  by  breeding 
'quite  the  clean  potato'  may  insensibly  have  influ- 
enced him  just  a  little.  He  had  heard  indeed  that 
he  was  not  even  entitled  to  the  name  of  Cramier, 


146  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

but  had  been  adopted  by  a  childless  man,  who  had 
brought  him  up  and  left  him  a  lot  of  money.  There 
was  something  in  this  that  went  against  the  grain 
of  the  childless  Colonel.  He  had  never  adopted, 
nor  been  adopted  by  anyone  himself.  There  was 
a  certain  lack  about  a  man  who  had  been  adopted, 
of  reasonable  guarantee — he  was  like  a  non-vintage 
wine,  or  a  horse  without  a  pedigree;  you  could  not 
quite  rely  on  what  he  might  do,  having  no  tradition 
in  his  blood.  His  appearance,  too,  and  manner 
somehow  lent  colour  to  this  distrust.  A  touch  of 
the  tar-brush  somewhere,  and  a  stubborn,  silent, 
pushing  fellow.  Why  on  earth  had  Olive  ever  mar- 
ried him!  But  then  women  were  such  kittle  cattle, 
poor  things!  and  old  Lindsay,  with  his  vestments 
and  his  views  on  obedience,  must  have  been  a  Tar- 
tar as  a  father,  poor  old  chap!  Besides,  Cramier, 
no  doubt,  was  what  most  women  would  call  good- 
looking;  more  taking  to  the  eye  than  such  a  quiet 
fellow  as  young  Lennan,  whose  features  were  rather 
anyhow,  though  pleasant  enough,  and  with  a  nice 
smile — the  sort  of  young  man  one  could  not  help 
liking,  and  who  certainly  would  never  hurt  a  fly! 
And  suddenly  there  came  the  thought:  Why  should 
he  not  go  to  young  Lennan  and  put  it  to  him  straight? 
That  he  was  in  love  with  Olive?  Not  quite — but 
the  way  to  do  it  would  come  to  him.  He  brooded 
long  over  this  idea,  and  spoke  of  it  to  Mrs.  Ercott, 
while  shaving,  the  next  morning.  Her  answer:  "My 
dear  John,  bosh!"  removed  his  last  doubt. 

Without  saying  where  he  was  going,  he  strolled 


SUMMER  147 

out  the  moment  after  breakfast — and  took  a  train 
to  Beaulieu.  At  the  young  man's  hotel  he  sent  in 
his  card,  and  was  told  that  this  Monsieur  had  al- 
ready gone  out  for  the  day.  His  mood  of  marching 
straight  up  to  the  guns  thus  checked,  he  was  left 
pensive  and  distraught.  Not  having  seen  Beaulieu 
(they  spoke  of  it  then  as, a  coming  place),  he  made 
his  way  up  an  incline.  That  whole  hillside  was 
covered  with  rose-trees.  Thousands  of  these  flowers 
were  starring  the  lower  air,  and  the  strewn  petals 
of  blown  and  fallen  roses  covered  the  light  soil. 
The  Colonel  put  his  nose  to  blossoms  here  and  there, 
but  they  had  little  scent,  as  if  they  knew  that  the 
season  was  already  over.  A  few  blue-bloused  peas- 
ants were  still  busy  among  them.  And  suddenly 
he  came  on  young  Lennan  himself,  sitting  on  a 
stone  and  dabbing  away  with  his  fingers  at  a  lump 
of  putty  stuff.  The  Colonel  hesitated.  Apart  from 
obvious  reasons  for  discomfiture,  he  had  that  feel- 
ing towards  Art  common  to  so  many  of  his  caste. 
It  was  not  work,  of  course,  but  it  was  very  clever 
— a  mystery  to  him  how  anyone  could  do  it!  On 
seeing  him,  Lennan  had  risen,  dropping  his  hand- 
kerchief over  what  he  was  modelling — but  not  be- 
fore the  Colonel  had  received  a  dim  impression  of 
something  familiar.  The  young  man  was  very  red 
— the  Colonel,  too,  was  conscious  suddenly  of  the 
heat.     He  held  out  his  hand. 

"Nice  quiet  place  this,"  he  stammered;  "never 
seen  it  before.     I  called  at  your  hotel." 

Now  that  he  had  his  chance,  he  was  completely 


148  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

at  a  loss.  The  sight  of  the  face  emerging  from  that 
lump  of  'putty  stuff'  had  quite  unnerved  him.  The 
notion  of  this  young  man  working  at  it  up  here 
all  by  himself,  just  because  he  was  away  an  hour 
or  two  from  the  original,  touched  him.  How  on  earth 
to  say  what  he  had  come  to  say?  It  was  altogether 
different  from  what  he  had  thought.  And  it  sud- 
denly flashed  through  him — Dolly  was  right!  She's 
always  right — hang  it! 

"You're  busy,"  he  said;  "I  mustn't  interrupt 
you." 

"Not  at  all,  sir.  It  was  awfully  good  of  you  to 
look  me  up." 

The  Colonel  stared.  There  was  something  about 
young  Lennan  that  he  had  not  noticed  before;  a 
*  Don't  take  Uberties  with  me!'  look  that  made 
things  difficult.  But  still  he  lingered,  staring  wist- 
fully at  the  young  man,  who  stood  waiting  with  such 
politeness.     Then  a  safe  question  shot  into  his  mind : 

"Ah!  And  when  do  you  go  back  to  England? 
We're  off  on  Tuesday." 

While  he  spoke,  a  puff  of  wind  lifted  the  hand- 
kerchief from  the  modelled  face.  Would  the  young 
fellow  put  it  back?  He  did  not.  And  the  Colonel 
thought: 

"It  would  have  been  bad  form.  He  knew  I 
wouldn't  take  advantage.  Yes!  He's  a  gentle- 
man!" 

Lifting  his  hand  to  the  salute,  he  said:  "Well, 
I  must  be  getting  back.  See  you  at  dinner  per- 
haps?"    And  turning  on  his  heel  he  marched  away. 


SUMMER  149 

The  remembrance  of  that  face  in  the  'putty  stuff' 
up  there  by  the  side  of  the  road  accompanied  him 
home.  It  was  bad — it  was  serious!  And  the  sense 
that  he  counted  for  nothing  in  all  of  it  grew  and 
grew  in  him.  He  told  no  one  of  where  he  had 
been.  .  .  , 

When  the  Colonel  turned  with  ceremony  and  left 
him,  Lennan  sat  down  again  on  the  flat  stone,  took 
up  his  'putty  stuff/  and  presently  effaced  that 
image.  He  sat  still  a  long  time,  to  all  appearance 
watching  the  little  blue  butterflies  playing  round 
the  red  and  tawny  roses.  Then  his  fingers  began 
to  work,  feverishly  shaping  a  head;  not  of  a  man, 
not  of  a  beast,  but  a  sort  of  horned,  heavy^  min- 
gling of  the  two.  There  was  something  frenetic  in 
the  movement  of  those  rather  short,  blunt-ended 
fingers,  as  though  they  were  strangling  the  thing 
they  were  creating. 

VIII 

In  those  days,  such  as  had  served  their  country 
travelled,  as  befitted  Spartans,  in  ordinary  first-class 
carriages,  and  woke  in  the  morning  at  La  Roche  or 
some  strange-sounding  place,  for  paler  coffee  and 
the  pale  brioche.  So  it  was  with  Colonel  and  IMrs. 
Ercott  and  their  niece,  accompanied  by  books  they 
did  not  read,  \dands  they  did  not  eat,  and  one  som- 
nolent Irishman  returning  from  the  East.  In  the 
disposition  of  legs  there  was  the  usual  difficulty,  no 
one  quite  liking  to  put  them  up,  and  all  ultimately 


150  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

doing  so,  save  Olive.  More  than  once  during  that 
night  the  Colonel,  lying  on  the  seat  opposite,  awoke 
and  saw  her  sitting,  withdrawn  into  her  corner,  with 
eyes  still  open.  Staring  at  that  little  head  which  he 
admired  so  much,  upright  and  unmoving,  in  its  dark 
straw  toque  against  the  cushion,  he  would  become 
suddenly  alert.  Kicking  the  Irishman  slightly  in  the 
effort,  he  would  slip  his  legs  down,  bend  across  to 
her  in  the  darkness,  and,  conscious  of  a  faint  fra- 
grance as  of  violets,  whisper  huskily:  "Anything  I 
can  do  for  you,  my  dear?"  When  she  had  smiled 
and  shaken  her  head,  he  would  retreat,  and  after 
holding  his  breath  to  see  if  Dolly  were  asleep,  would 
restore  his  feet,  slightly  kicking  the  Irishman.  After 
one  such  expedition,  for  full  ten  minutes  he  remained 
awake,  wondering  at  her  tireless  immobility.  For 
indeed  she  was  spending  this  night  entranced,  with 
the  feeling  that  Lennan  was  beside  her,  holding  her 
hand  in  his.  She  seemed  actually  to  feel  the  touch 
of  his  finger  against  the  tiny  patch  of  her  bare  palm 
where  the  glove  opened.  It  was  wonderful,  this  un- 
canny communion  in  the  dark  rushing  night — she 
would  not  have  slept  for  worlds !  Never  before  had 
she  felt  so  close  to  him,  not  even  when  he  had 
kissed  her  that  once  under  the  olives;  nor  even 
when  at  the  concert  yesterday  his  arm  pressed  hers; 
and  his  voice  whispered  words  she  heard  so  thirst- 
ily. And  that  golden  fortnight  passed  and  passed 
through  her  on  an  endless  band  of  reminiscence. 
Its  memories  were  like  flowers,  such  scent  and 
warmth  and  colour  in  them;    and  of  all,  none  per- 


SUMMER  151 

haps  quite  so  poignant  as  the  memory  of  the  mo- 
ment, at  the  door  of  their  carriage,  when  he  said, 
so  low  that  she  just  heard:  "Good-bye,  my  dar- 
ling!" 

He  had  never  before  called  her  that.  Not  even 
his  touch  on  her  cheek  under  the  olives  equalled 
the  simple  treasure  of  that  word.  And  above  the 
roar  and  clatter  of  the  train,  and  the  snoring  of  the 
Irishman,  it  kept  sounding  in  her  ears,  hour  after 
dark  hour.  It  was  perhaps  not  wonderful,  that 
through  all  that  night  she  never  once  looked  the 
future  in  the  face — made  no  plans,  took  no  stock  of 
her  position;  just  yielded  to  memory,  and  to  the 
half-dreamed  sensation  of  his  presence  close  beside 
her.  Whatever  might  come  afterwards,  she  was  his 
this  night.  Such  was  the  trance  that  gave  to  her 
the  strange,  soft,  tireless  immobility  which  so  moved 
her  Uncle  whenever  he  woke  up. 

In  Paris  they  drove  from  station  to  station  in  a 
vehicle  unfit  for  three — 'to  stretch  their  legs' — as 
the  Colonel  said.  Since  he  saw  in  his  niece  no  signs 
of  flagging,  no  regret,  his  spirits  were  rising,  and  he 
confided  to  Mrs.  Ercott  in  the  buffet  at  the  Gare 
du  Nord,  when  Olive  had  gone  to  wash,  that  he  did 
not  think  there  was  much  in  it,  after  all,  looking  at 
the  way  she'd  travelled. 

But  Mrs.  Ercott  answered: 

"Haven't  you  ever  noticed  that  Olive  never  shows 
what  she  does  not  want  to?  She  has  not  got  those 
eyes  for  nothing." 

"What  eyes?" 


152  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

"Eyes  that  see  everything,  and  seem  to  see  noth- 
ing." 

Conscious  that  something  was  hurting  her,  the 
Colonel  tried  to  take  her  hand. 

But  Mrs.  Ercott  rose  quickly,  and  went  where  he 
could  not  follow. 

Thus  suddenly  deserted,  the  Colonel  brooded, 
drumming  on  the  little  table.  What  now!  Dolly 
was  unjust!  Poor  Dolly!  He  was  as  fond  of  her 
as  ever!  Of  course!  How  could  he  help  Olive's 
being  young — and  pretty;  how  could  he  help  look- 
ing after  her,  and  wanting  to  save  her  from  this 
mess!  Thus  he  sat  wondering,  dismayed  by  the 
unreasonableness  of  women.  It  did  not  enter  his 
head  that  Mrs.  Ercott  had  been  almost  as  sleepless 
as  his  niece,  watching  through  closed  eyes  every 
one  of  those  little  expeditions  of  his,  and  saying  to 
herself:    "Ah!    He  doesn't  care  how  /  travel!" 

She  returned  serene  enough,  conceahng  her  'grief,' 
and  soon  they  were  once  more  whirling  towards 
England. 

But  the  future  had  begun  to  lay  its  hand  on 
Olive;  the  spell  of  the  past  was  already  losing 
power;  the  sense  that  it  had  all  been  a  dream  grew 
stronger  every  minute.  In  a  few  hours  she  would 
re-enter  the  little  house  close  under  the  shadow  of 
that  old  Wren  church,  which  reminded  her  some- 
how of  childhood,  and  her  austere  father  with  his 
chiselled  face.  The  meeting  with  her  husband! 
How  go  through  that!  And  to-night!  But  she  did 
not  care  to  contemplate  to-night.     And  all  those 


SUMMER  153 

to-morrows  wherein  there  was  nothing  she  had  to 
do  of  which  it  was  reasonable  to  complain,  yet 
nothing  she  could  do  without  feehng  that  all  the 
friendhness  and  zest  and  colour  was  out  of  Hfe,  and 
she  a  prisoner.  Into  those  to-morrows  she  felt  she 
would  slip  back,  out  of  her  dream;  lost,  with  hardly 
perhaps  an  effort.  To  get  away  to  the  house  on 
the  river,  where  her  husband  came  only  at  week- 
ends, had  hitherto  been  a  refuge;  only  she  would 
not  see  Mark  there — unless — !  Then,  with  the 
thought  that  she  would,  must  still  see  him  some- 
times, all  again  grew  faintly  glamorous.  If  only 
she  did  see  him,  what  would  the  rest  matter?  Never 
again  as  it  had  before! 

The  Colonel  was  reaching  down  her  handbag; 
his  cheery :  "Looks  as  if  it  would  be  rough ! "  aroused 
her.  Glad  to  be  alone,  and  tired  enough  now,  she 
sought  the  ladies'  cabin,  and  slept  through  the  cross- 
ing, till  the  voice  of  the  old  stewardess  awakened 
her:  "You've  had  a  nice  sleep.  We're  alongside, 
miss."  Ah!  if  she  were  but  that  now!  She  had 
been  dreaming  that  she  was  sitting  in  a  flowery 
field,  and  Lennan  had  drawn  her  up  by  the  hands, 
with  the  words:    "We're  here,  my  darling!" 

On  deck,  the  Colonel,  laden  with  bags,  was  look- 
ing back  for  her,  and  trying  to  keep  a  space  be- 
tween him  and  his  wife.  He  signalled  with  his  chin. 
Threading  her  way  towards  him,  she  happened  to 
look  up.  By  the  rails  of  the  pier  above  she  saw  her 
husband.  He  was  leaning  there,  looking  intently 
down;  his  tall  broad  figure  made  the  people  on  each 


154  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

side  of  him  seem  insignificant.  The  clean-shaved, 
square-cut  face,  with  those  almost  epileptic,  force- 
ful eyes,  had  a  stillness  and  intensity  beside  which 
the  neighbouring  faces  seemed  to  disappear.  She 
saw  him  very  clearly,  even  noting  the  touch  of  sil- 
ver in  his  dark  hair,  on  each  side  under  his  straw 
hat;  noting  that  he  seemed  too  massive  for  his  neat 
blue  suit.  His  face  relaxed;  he  made  a  little  move- 
ment of  one  hand.  Suddenly  it  shot  through  her: 
Suppose  Mark  had  travelled  with  them,  as  he  had 
wished  to  do?  For  ever  and  ever  now,  that  dark 
massive  creature,  smiling  down  at  her,  was  her 
enemy;  from  whom  she  must  guard  and  keep  her- 
self if  she  could;  keep,  at  all  events,  each  one  of 
her  real  thoughts  and  hopes!  She  could  have 
writhed,  and  cried  out;  instead,  she  tightened  her 
grip  on  the  handle  of  her  bag,  and  smiled.  Though 
so  skilled  in  knowledge  of  his  moods,  she  felt,  in  his 
greeting,  his  fierce  grip  of  her  shoulders,  the  smoul- 
dering of  some  feeling  the  nature  of  which  she  could 
not  quite  fathom.  His  voice  had  a  grim  sincerity: 
''Glad  you're  back — thought  you  were  never  com- 
ing!" Resigned  to  his  charge,  a  feeling  of  sheer 
physical  faintness  so  beset  her  that  she  could  hardly 
reach  the  compartment  he  had  reserved.  It  seemed 
to  her  that,  for  all  her  foreboding,  she  had  not  till 
this  moment  had  the  smallest  inkling  of  what  was 
now  before  her;  and  at  his  muttered:  "Must  we 
have  the  old  fossils  in?"  she  looked  back  to  assure 
herself  that  her  Uncle  and  Aunt  were  following. 
To  avoid  having  to  talk,  she  feigned  to  have  trav- 


SUMMER  155 

elled  badly,  leaning  back  with  closed  eyes,  in  her 
corner.  If  only  she  could  open  them  and  see,  not 
this  square- jawed  face  with  its  intent  gaze  of  pos- 
session, but  that  other  with  its  eager  eyes  humbly 
adoring  her.  The  interminable  journey  ended  all 
too  soon.  She  clung  quite  desperately  to  the  Colo- 
nel's hand  on  the  platform  at  Charing  Cross.  When 
his  kind  face  vanished  she  would  be  lost  indeed! 
Then,  in  the  closed  cab,  she  heard  her  husband's: 
"Aren't  you  going  to  kiss  me?"  and  submitted  to 
his  embrace. 

She  tried  so  hard  to  think:  What  does  it  matter? 
It's  not  I,  not  my  soul,  my  spirit — only  my  miser- 
able lips! 

She  heard  him  say:  "You  don't  seem  too  glad  to 
see  me!"  And  then:  "I  hear  you  had  young  Len- 
nan  out  there.     What  was  he  doing?" 

She  felt  the  turmoil  of  sudden  fear,  wondered 
whether  she  was  showing  it,  lost  it  in  unnatural 
alertness — all  in  the  second  before  she  answered: 
"Oh!  just  a  holiday." 

Some  seconds  passed,  and  then  he  said: 

"You  didn't  mention  him  in  your  letters." 

She  answered  coolly:  "Didn't  I?  We  saw  a  good 
deal  of  him." 

She  knew  that  he  was  looking  at  her — an  inquisi- 
tive, half-menacing  regard.  Why — oh,  why! — could 
she  not  then  and  there  cry  out:  "And  I  love  him — 
do  you  hear? — I  love  him!"  So  awful  did  it  seem 
to  be  denying  her  love  with  these  half  lies!  But  it 
was  all  so  much  more  grim  and  hopeless  than  even 


156  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

she  had  thought.  How  inconceivable,  now,  that  she 
had  ever  given  herself  up  to  this  man  for  hfe!  If 
only  she  could  get  away  from  him  to  her  room,  and 
scheme  and  think!  For  his  eyes  never  left  her, 
travelling  over  her  with  their  pathetic  greed,  their 
menacing  inquiry,  till  he  said:  "Well,  it's  not  done 
you  any  harm.  You  look  very  fit."  But  his  touch 
was  too  much  even  for  her  self-command,  and  she 
recoiled  as  if  he  had  struck  her. 

"What's  the  matter?     Did  I  hurt  you?" 

It  seemed  to  her  that  he  was  jeering — then  real- 
ized as  vividly  that  he  was  not.  And  the  full  dan- 
ger to  her,  perhaps  to  Mark  himself,  of  shrinking 
from  this  man,  striking  her  with  all  its  pitiable 
force,  she  made  a  painful  effort,  slipped  her  hand 
under  his  arm,  and  said:  "I'm  very  tired.  You 
startled  me." 

But  he  put  her  hand  away,  and  turning  his  face, 
stared  out  of  the  window.  And  so  they  reached 
their  home. 

When  he  had  left  her  alone,  she  remained  where 
she  was  standing,  by  her  wardrobe,  without  sound 
or  movement,  thinking:  What  am  I  going  to  do? 
How  am  I  going  to  live? 

IX 

When  Mark  Lennan,  travelling  through  from 
BeauHeu,  reached  his  rooms  in  Chelsea,  he  went  at 
once  to  the  httle  pile  of  his  letters,  twice  hunted 
through  them,  then  stood  very  still,  with  a  stunned, 


SUMMER  157 

sick  feeling.  Why  had  she  not  sent  him  that  prom- 
ised note?  And  now  he  reaHzed — though  not  yet 
to  the  full — what  it  meant  to  be  in  love  with  a 
married  woman.  He  must  wait  in  this  suspense 
for  eighteen  hours  at  least,  till  he  could  call,  and 
find  out  what  had  happened  to  prevent  her,  till  he 
could  hear  from  her  lips  that  she  still  loved  him. 
The  chilliest  of  legal  lovers  had  access  to  his  love, 
but  he  must  possess  a  soul  that  was  on  fire,  in  this 
deadly  patience,  for  fear  of  doing  something  that 
might  jeopardize  her.  Telegraph?  He  dared  not. 
Write?  She  would  get  it  by  the  first  post;  but 
what  could  he  say  that  was  not  dangerous,  if  Cra- 
mier  chanced  to  see?  Call?  Still  more  impossible 
till  three  o'clock,  at  very  earliest,  to-morrow.  His 
gaze  wandered  round  the  studio.  Were  these  house- 
hold gods,  and  all  these  works  of  his,  indeed  the 
same  he  had  left  twenty  days  ago?  They  seemed 
to  exist  now  only  in  so  far  as  she  might  come  to 
see  them — come  and  sit  in  such  a  chair,  and  drink 
out  of  such  a  cup,  and  let  him  put  this  cushion  for 
her  back,  and  that  footstool  for  her  feet.  And  so 
vividly  could  he  see  her  lying  back  in  that  chair 
looking  across  at  him,  that  he  could  hardly  believe 
she  had  never  yet  sat  there.  It  was  odd  how — ■ 
without  any  resolution  taken,  without  admission 
that  their  love  could  not  remain  platonic,  without 
any  change  in  their  relations,  save  one  humble  kiss 
and  a  few  whispered  words — everything  was  changed. 
A  month  or  so  ago,  if  he  had  wanted,  he  would  have 
gone  at  once  calmly  to  her  house.     It  would  have 


158  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

seemed  harmless,  and  quite  natural.  Now  it  was  im- 
possible to  do  openly  the  least  thing  that  strict  con- 
vention did  not  find  desirable.  Sooner  or  later  they 
would  find  him  stepping  over  convention,  and  take 
him  for  what  he  was  not — a  real  lover!  A  real  lover! 
He  knelt  down  before  the  empty  chair  and  stretched 
out  his  arms.  No  substance — no  warmth — no  fra- 
grance— nothing!  Longing  that  passed  through  air, 
as  the  wind  through  grass. 

He  went  to  the  little  round  window,  which  over- 
looked the  river.  The  last  evening  of  May;  gloam- 
ing above  the  water,  dusk  resting  in  the  trees,  and 
the  air  warm!  Better  to  be  out,  and  moving  in  the 
night,  out  in  the  ebb  and  flow  of  things,  among 
others  whose  hearts  were  beating,  than  stay  in  this 
place  that  without  her  was  so  cold  and  meaningless. 

Lamps — the  passion-fruit  of  towns — were  turn- 
ing from  pallor  to  full  orange,  and  the  stars  were 
coming  out.  Half-past  nine!  At  ten  o'clock,  and 
not  before,  he  would  walk  past  her  house.  To  have 
this  something  to  look  forward  to,  however  furtive 
and  barren,  helped.  But  on  a  Saturday  night  there 
would  be  no  sitting  at  the  House.  Cramier  would 
be  at  home;  or  they  would  both  be  out;  or  perhaps 
have  gone  down  to  their  river  cottage.  Cramier! 
What  cruel  demon  had  presided  over  that  marring 
of  her  life!  Why  had  he  never  met  her  till  after 
she  had  bound  herself  to  this  man!  From  a  nega- 
tive contempt  for  one  who  was  either  not  sensitive 
enough  to  recognize  that  his  marriage  was  a  failure, 
or  not  chivalrous  enough  to  make  that  failure  bear 


SUMMER  159 

as  little  hardly  as  possible  on  his  wife,  he  had  come 
already  to  jealous  hatred  as  of  a  monster.  To  be 
face  to  face  with  Cramier  in  a  mortal  conflict  could 
alone  have  satisfied  his  feeling.  .  .  .  Yet  he  was  a 
young  man  by  nature  gentle! 

His  heart  beat  desperately  as  he  approached  that 
street — one  of  those  little  old  streets,  so  beautiful, 
that  belonged  to  a  vanished  London.  It  was  very 
narrow,  there  was  no  shelter;  and  he  thought  con- 
fusedly of  what  he  could  say,  if  met  in  this  remote 
backwater  that  led  nowhere.  He  would  tell  some 
lie,  no  doubt.  Lies  would  now  be  his  daily  business. 
Lies  and  hatred,  those  violent  things  of  Hfe,  would 
come  to  seem  quite  natural,  in  the  violence  of  his 
love. 

He  stood  a  moment,  hesitating,  by  the  rails  of 
the  old  church.  Black,  white-veined,  with  shadowy 
summits,  in  that  half  darkness,  it  was  like  some 
gigantic  vision.  Mystery  itself  seemed  modelled 
there.  He  turned  and  walked  quickly  down  the 
street  close  to  the  houses  on  the  further  side.  The 
windows  of  her  house  were  lighted!  So,  she  was 
not  away!  Dim  light  in  the  dining-room,  lights  in 
the  room  above — her  bedroom,  doubtless.  Was 
there  no  way  to  bring  her  to  the  window,  no  way 
his  spirit  could  climb  up  there  and  beckon  hers 
out  to  him?  Perhaps  she  was  not  there,  perhaps  it 
was  but  a  servant  taking  up  hot  water.  He  was  at 
the  end  of  the  street  by  now,  but  to  leave  without 
once  more  passing  was  impossible.  And  this  time 
he  went  slowly,  his  head  down,  feigning  abstraction. 


i6o  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

grudging  every  inch  of  pavement,  and  all  the  time 
furtively  searching  that  window  with  the  light  be- 
hind the  curtains.  Nothing!  Once  more  he  was 
close  to  the  raihngs  of  the  church,  and  once  more 
could  not  bring  himself  to  go  away.  In  the  Kttle, 
close,  deserted  street,  not  a  soul  was  moving,  not 
even  a  cat  or  dog;  nothing  alive  but  many  discreet, 
lighted  windows.  Like  veiled  faces,  showing  no  emo- 
tion, they  seemed  to  watch  his  indecision.  And  he 
thought:  "Ah,  well!  I  dare  say  there  are  lots  like 
me.  Lots  as  near,  and  yet  as  far  away!  Lots  who 
have  to  suffer! "  But  what  would  he  not  have  given 
for  the  throwing  open  of  those  curtains.  Then,  sud- 
denly scared  by  an  approaching  figure,  he  turned 
and  walked  away. 

X 

At  three  o'clock  next  day  he  called. 

In  the  middle  of  her  white  drawing-room,  whose 
latticed  window  ran  the  whole  length  of  one  wall, 
stood  a  little  table  on  which  was  a  silver  jar  full  of 
early  larkspurs,  evidently  from  her  garden  by  the 
river.  And  Lennan  waited,  his  eyes  fixed  on  those 
blossoms  so  like  to  little  blue  butterflies  and  strange- 
hued  crickets,  tethered  to  the  pale  green  stems.  In 
this  room  she  passed  her  days,  guarded  from  him. 
Once  a  week,  at  most,  he  would  be  able  to  come 
there — once  a  week  for  an  hour  or  two  of  the  hun- 
dred and  sixty-eight  hours  that  he  longed  to  be  with 
her. 


SUMMER  i6i 

And  suddenly  he  was  conscious  of  her.  She  had 
come  in  without  sound,  and  was  standing  by  the 
piano,  so  pale,  in  her  cream-white  dress,  that  her 
eyes  looked  jet  black.  He  hardly  knew  that  face, 
like  a  flower  closed  against  cold. 

What  had  he  done?  What  had  happened  in  these 
five  days  to  make  her  like  this  to  him?  He  took  her 
hands  and  tried  to  kiss  them;  but  she  said  quickly: 

"He's  in!" 

At  that  he  stood  silent,  looking  into  that  face, 
frozen  to  a  dreadful  composure,  on  the  breaking  up 
of  which  his  very  life  seemed  to  depend.  At  last 
he  said: 

"What  is  it?    Am  I  nothing  to  you,  after  all?" 

But  as  soon  as  he  had  spoken  he  saw  that  he 
need  not  have  asked,  and  flung  his  arms  round  her. 
She  clung  to  him  with  desperation;  then  freed  her- 
self, and  said: 

"No,  no;  let's  sit  down  quietly!" 

He  obeyed,  half-divining,  half-refusing  to  admit 
all  that  lay  behind  that  strange  coldness,  and  this 
desperate  embrace;  aU  the  self-pity,  and  self-loath- 
ing, shame,  rage,  and  longing  of  a  married  woman 
for  the  first  time  face  to  face  with  her  lover  in  her 
husband's  house. 

She  seemed  now  to  be  trying  to  make  him  forget 
her  strange  behaviour;  to  be  what  she  had  been 
during  that  fortnight  in  the  sunshine.  But,  sud- 
denly, just  moving  her  lips,  she  said: 

"Quick!  When  can  we  see  each  other?  I  will 
come  to  you  to  tea — to-morrow,"   and,  following 


i62  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

her  eyes,  he  saw  the  door  opening,  and  Cramier 
coming  in.  Unsmiling,  very  big  in  the  low  room, 
he  crossed  over  to  them,  and  offered  his  hand  to 
Lennan;  then  drawing  a  low  chair  forward  between 
their  two  chairs,  sat  down. 

"  So  you're  back,"  he  said.     "  Have  a  good  time?  " 

"Thanks,  yes;   very." 

"Luck  for  Olive  you  were  there;  those  places  are 
dull  holes." 

"It  was  luck  for  me." 

"No  doubt."  And  with  those  words  he  turned  to 
his  wife.  His  elbows  rested  along  the  arms  of  his 
chair,  so  that  his  clenched  palms  were  upwards;  it 
was  as  if  he  knew  that  he  was  holding  those  two, 
gripped  one  in  each  hand. 

"I  wonder,"  he  said  slowly,  "that  fellows  like  you, 
with  nothing  in  the  world  to  tie  them,  ever  sit  down 
in  a  place  like  London.  I  should  have  thought 
Rome  or  Paris  were  your  happy  hunting-grounds." 
In  his  voice,  in  those  eyes  of  his,  a  little  bloodshot, 
with  their  look  of  power,  in  his  whole  attitude,  there 
was  a  sort  of  mufHed  menace,  and  contempt,  as 
though  he  were  thinking:  "Step  into  my  path,  and 
I  will  crush  you!" 

And  Lennan  thought: 

"How  long  must  I  sit  here?"  Then,  past  that 
figure  planted  solidly  between  them,  he  caught  a 
look  from  her,  swift,  sure,  marvellously  timed — 
again  and  again — as  if  she  were  being  urged  by  the 
very  presence  of  this  danger.  One  of  those  glances 
would  surely — surely  be  seen  by  Cramier.     Is  there 


SUMMER  163 

need  for  fear  that  a  swallow  should  dash  itself  against 
the  wall  over  which  it  skims?  But  he  got  up,  un- 
able to  bear  it  longer. 

"Going?"  That  one  suave  word  had  an  inimi- 
table insolence. 

He  could  hardly  see  his  hand  touching  Cramier's 
heavy  fist.  Then  he  reahzed  that  she  was  standing 
so  that  their  faces  when  they  must  say  good-bye 
could  not  be  seen.  Her  eyes  were  smiling,  yet  im- 
ploring; her  lips  shaped  the  word:  "To-morrow!" 
And  squeezing  her  hand  desperately,  he  got  away. 

He  had  never  dreamed  that  to  see  her  in  the 
presence  of  the  man  who  owned  her  would  be  so 
terrible.  For  a  moment  he  thought  that  he  must 
give  her  up,  give  up  a  love  that  would  drive  him 
mad. 

He  climbed  on  to  an  omnibus  travelling  West. 
Another  twenty-four  hours  of  starvation  had  begun. 
It  did  not  matter  at  all  what  he  did  with  them. 
They  were  simply  so  much  aching  that  had  to  be 
got  through  somehow — so  much  aching;  and  what 
relief  at  the  end?  An  hour  or  two  with  her,  desper- 
ately holding  himself  in. 

Like  most  artists,  and  few  Englishmen,  he  lived 
on  feelings  rather  than  on  facts;  so,  found  no  refuge 
in  decisive  resolutions.  But  he  made  many — the 
resolution  to  give  her  up ;  to  be  true  to  the  ideal  of 
service  for  no  reward;  to  beseech  her  to  leave  Cramier 
and  come  to  him — and  he  made  each  many  times. 

At  Hyde  Park  Corner  he  got  down,  and  went  into 
the  Park,  thinking  that  to  walk  would  help  him. 


i64  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

A  great  number  of  people  were  sitting  there,  ta- 
king  mysterious  anodyne,  doing  the  right  thing;  to 
avoid  them,  he  kept  along  the  rails,  and  ran  almost 
into  the  arms  of  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Ercott,  who  were 
coming  from  the  direction  of  Knightsbridge,  slightly 
flushed,  having  lunched  and  talked  of  'Monte'  at 
the  house  of  a  certain  General. 

They  greeted  him  with  the  surprise  of  those  who 
had  said  to  each  other  many  times:  "That  young 
man  will  come  rushing  back!"  It  was  very  nice — 
they  said — to  run  across  him.  When  did  he  arrive? 
They  had  thought  he  was  going  on  to  Italy — he 
was  looking  rather  tired.  They  did  not  ask  if  he 
had  seen  her — being  too  kind,  and  perhaps  afraid 
that  he  would  say  'Yes,'  which  would  be  embar- 
rassing; or  that  he  would  say  'No,'  which  would  be 
still  more  embarrassing  when  they  found  that  he 
ought  to  have  said  'Yes.'  Would  he  not  come  and 
sit  with  them  a  little — they  were  going  presently  to 
see  how  Olive  was?  Lennan  perceived  that  they  were 
warning  him.  And,  forcing  himself  to  look  at  them 
very  straight,  he  said:   "I  have  just  been  there." 

Mrs.  Ercott  phrased  her  impressions  that  same 
evening:  "He  looks  quite  hunted,  poor  young  man! 
I'm  afraid  there's  going  to  be  fearful  trouble  there. 
Did  you  notice  how  quickly  he  ran  away  from  us? 
He's  thin,  too;  if  it  wasn't  for  his  tan,  he'd  look 
really  ill.  The  boy's  eyes  are  so  pathetic;  and  he 
used  to  have  such  a  nice  smile  in  them." 

The  Colonel,  who  was  fastening  her  hooks,  paused 
in  an  operation  that  required  concentration. 


SUMMER  165 

"It's  a  thousand  pities,"  he  muttered,  "that  he 
hasn't  any  work  to  do.  That  puddhng  about  with 
clay  or  whatever  he  does  is  no  good  at  all."  And 
slowly  fastening  one  hook,  he  unhooked  several 
others. 

Mrs.  Ercott  went  on: 

"And  I  saw  Olive,  when  she  thought  I  wasn't 
looking;  it  was  just  as  if  she'd  taken  off  a  mask. 
But  Robert  Cramier  will  never  put  up  with  it.  He's 
in  love  with  her  still;  I  watched  him.  It's  tragic, 
John." 

The  Colonel  let  his  hands  fall  from  the  hooks. 

"If  I  thought  that,"  he  said,  "I'd  do  something." 

"If  you  could,  it  would  not  be  tragic." 

The  Colonel  stared.  There  was  always  something 
to  be  done. 

"You  read  too  many  novels,"  he  said,  but  with- 
out spirit. 

Mrs.  Ercott  smiled,  and  made  no  answer  to  an 
aspersion  she  had  heard  before. 

XI 

When  Lennan  reached  his  rooms  again  after  that 
encounter  with  the  Ercotts,  he  found  in  his  letter- 
box a  visiting  card:  "Mrs.  Doone"  "Aliss  Sylvia 
Doone,"  and  on  it  pencilled  the  words:  "Do  come 
and  see  us  before  we  go  down  to  Hayle — Sylvia." 
He  stared  blankly  at  the  round  handwriting  he  knew 
so  well. 

Sylvia  I     Nothing   perhaps   could   have   made   so 


1 66  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

plain  to  him  how  in  this  tornado  of  his  passion  the 
world  was  drowned.  Sylvia!  He  had  almost  for- 
gotten her  existence;  and  yet,  only  last  year,  after 
he  definitely  settled  down  in  London,  he  had  once 
more  seen  a  good  deal  of  her;  and  even  had  soft 
thoughts  of  her  again — with  her  pale-gold  hair,  her 
true  look,  her  sweetness.  Then  they  had  gone  for 
the  winter  to  Algiers  for  her  mother's  health. 

When  they  came  back,  he  had  already  avoided 
seeing  her,  though  that  was  before  Olive  went  to 
Monte  Carlo,  before  he  had  even  admitted  his  own 
feeling.  And  since — he  had  not  once  thought  of 
her.  Not  once!  The  world  had  indeed  vanished. 
"Do  come  and  see  us — Sylvia."  The  very  notion 
was  an  irritation.  No  rest  from  aching  and  impa- 
tience to  be  had  that  way. 

And  then  the  idea  came  to  him:  Why  not  kill 
these  hours  of  waiting  for  to-morrow's  meeting  by 
going  on  the  river  passing  by  her  cottage?  There 
was  still  one  train  that  he  could  catch. 

He  reached  the  village  after  dark,  and  spent  the 
night  at  the  inn;  got  up  early  next  morning,  took  a 
boat,  and  pulled  down-stream.  The  bluffs  of  the  op- 
posite bank  were  wooded  with  high  trees.  The  sun 
shone  softly  on  their  leaves,  and  the  bright  stream 
was  ruffled  by  a  breeze  that  bent  all  the  reeds  and 
slowly  swayed  the  water-flowers.  One  thin  white 
line  of  wind  streaked  the  blue  sky.  He  shipped  his 
sculls  and  drifted,  listening  to  the  wood-pigeons, 
watching  the  swallows  chasing.  If  only  she  were 
here!    To  spend  one  long  day  thus,  drifting  with  the 


SUMMER  167 

stream!  To  have  but  one  such  rest  from  longing! 
Her  cottage,  he  knew,  lay  on  the  same  side  as  the 
village,  and  just  beyond  an  island.  She  had  told 
him  of  a  hedge  of  yew-trees,  and  a  white  dovecote 
almost  at  the  water's  edge.  He  came  to  the  island, 
and  let  his  boat  slide  into  the  backwater.  It  was 
all  overgrown  with  willow-trees  and  alders,  dark 
even  in  this  early  morning  radiance,  and  marvel- 
lously still.  There  was  no  room  to  row;  he  took 
the  boathook  and  tried  to  punt,  but  the  green  water 
was  too  deep  and  entangled  with  great  roots,  so 
that  he  had  to  make  his  way  by  clawing  with  the 
hook  at  branches.  Birds  seemed  to  shun  this  gloom, 
but  a  single  magpie  crossed  the  one  little  clear  patch 
of  sky,  and  flew  low  behind  the  willows.  The  air 
here  had  a  sweetish,  earthy  odour  of  too  rank  foliage; 
all  brightness  seemed  entombed.  He  was  glad  to 
pass  out  again  under  a  huge  poplar-tree  into  the 
fluttering  gold  and  silver  of  the  morning.  And 
almost  at  once  he  saw  the  yew-hedge  at  the  bor- 
der of  some  bright  green  turf,  and  a  pigeon-house, 
high  on  its  pole,  painted  cream-white.  About  it  a 
number  of  ring-doves  and  snow-white  pigeons  were 
perched  or  flying;  and  beyond  the  lawn  he  could 
see  the  dark  veranda  of  a  low  house,  covered  by 
wistaria  just  going  out  of  flower.  A  drift  of  scent 
from  late  lilacs,  and  new-mown  grass,  was  borne 
out  to  him,  together  with  the  sound  of  a  mowing- 
machine,  and  the  humming  of  many  bees.  It  was 
beautiful  here,  and  seemed,  for  all  its  restfulness,  to 
have  something  of  that  flying  quality  he  so  loved 


l68  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

about  her  face,  about  the  sweep  of  her  hair,  the 
quick,  soft  turn  of  her  eyes — or  was  that  but  the 
darkness  of  the  yew-trees,  the  whiteness  of  the  dove- 
cote, and  the  doves  themselves,  flying? 

He  lay  there  a  long  time  quietly  beneath  the 
bank,  careful  not  to  attract  the  attention  of  the 
old  gardener,  who  was  methodically  pushing  his 
machine  across  and  across  the  lawn.  How  he  wanted 
her  with  him  then!  Wonderful  that  there  could  be 
in  life  such  beauty  and  wild  softness  as  made  the 
heart  ache  with  the  delight  of  it,  and  in  that  same 
life  grey  rules  and  rigid  barriers — coffins  of  happi- 
ness! That  doors  should  be  closed  on  love  and 
joy!  There  was  not  so  much  of  it  in  the  world! 
She,  who  was  the  very  spirit  of  this  flying,  nymph- 
like summer,  was  untimely  wintered-up  in  bleak 
sorrow.  There  was  a  hateful  unwisdom  in  that 
thought;  it  seemed  so  grim  and  violent,  so  corpse- 
like, gruesome,  narrow  and  extravagant!  What 
possible  end  could  it  serve  that  she  should  be  un- 
happy! Even  if  he  had  not  loved  her,  he  would 
have  hated  her  fate  just  as  much — all  such  stories 
of  imprisoned  lives  had  roused  his  anger  even  as  a 
boy. 

Soft  white  clouds — those  bright  angels  of  the 
river,  never  very  long  away — had  begun  now  to 
spread  their  wings  over  the  woods;  and  the  wind 
had  dropped  so  that  the  slumbrous  warmth  and 
murmuring  of  summer  gathered  full  over  the  water. 
The  old  gardener  had  finished  his  job  of  mowing, 
and  came  with  a  httle  basket  of  grain  to  feed  the 


'    SUMMER  169 

doves.  Lennan  watched  them  going  to  him,  the 
ring-doves,  very  dainty,  and  capricious,  keeping  to 
themselves.  In  place  of  that  old  fellow,  he  was 
really  seeing  her^  feeding  from  her  hands  those  birds 
of  Cypris.  What  a  group  he  could  have  made  of 
her  with  them  perching  and  flying  round  her!  If 
she  were  his,  what  could  he  not  achieve — to  make 
her  immortal — like  the  old  Greeks  and  Italians,  who, 
in  their  work,  had  rescued  their  mistresses  from 
Time!  .  .  . 

He  was  back  in  his  rooms  in  London  two  hours 
before  he  dared  begin  expecting  her.  Living  alone 
there  but  for  a  caretaker  who  came  every  morning 
for  an  hour  or  two,  made  dust,  and  departed,  he 
had  no  need  for  caution.  And  when  he  had  pro- 
cured flowers,  and  the  fruits  and  cakes  which  they 
certainly  would  not  eat — when  he  had  arranged  the 
tea-table,  and  made  the  grand  tour  at  least  tv/enty 
times,  he  placed  himself  with  a  book  at  the  little 
round  window,  to  watch  for  her  approach.  There, 
very  still,  he  sat,  not  reading  a  word,  continually 
moistening  his  dry  lips  and  sighing,  to  relieve  the 
tension  of  his  heart.  At  last  he  saw  her  coming. 
She  was  walking  close  to  the  railings  of  the  houses, 
looking  neither  to  right  nor  left.  She  had  on  a 
lawn  frock,  and  a  hat  of  the  palest  coffee-coloured 
straw,  with  a  narrow  black  velvet  ribbon.  She 
crossed  the  side  street,  stopped  for  a  second,  gave  a 
swift  look  round,  then  came  resolutely  on.  What 
was  it  made  him  love  her  so?  What  was  the  secret 
of  her  fascination?     Certainly,  no  conscious  entice- 


lyo  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

merits.  Never  did  anyone  try  less  to  fascinate.  He 
could  not  recall  one  single  little  thing  that  she  had 
done  to  draw  him  to  her.  Was  it,  perhaps,  her  very 
passivity,  her  native  pride  that  never  offered  or 
asked  anything,  a  sort  of  soft  stoicism  in  her  fibre; 
that  and  some  mysterious  charm,  as  close  and  inti- 
mate as  scent  was  to  a  flower? 

He  waited  to  open  till  he  heard  her  footstep  just 
outside.  She  came  in  without  a  word,  not  even 
looking  at  him.  And  he,  too,  said  not  a  word  till 
he  had  closed  the  door,  and  made  sure  of  her.  Then 
they  turned  to  each  other.  Her  breast  was  heaving 
a  little,  under  her  thin  frock,  but  she  was  calmer  than 
he,  with  that  wonderful  composure  of  pretty  women 
in  all  the  passages  of  love,  as  who  should  say:  This 
is  my  native  air! 

They  stood  and  looked  at  each  other,  as  if  they 
could  never  have  enough,  till  he  said  at  last: 

"I  thought  I  should  die  before  this  moment  came. 
There  isn't  a  minute  that  I  don't  long  for  you  so 
terribly  that  I  can  hardly  live." 

"And  do  you  think  that  I  don't  long  for  you?" 

''Then  come  to  me!" 

She  looked  at  him  mournfully  and  shook  her 
head. 

Well,  he  had  known  that  she  would  not.  He  had 
not  earned  her.  What  right  had  he  to  ask  her  to 
fly  against  the  world,  to  brave  everything,  to  have 
such  faith  in  him — as  yet?  He  had  no  heart  to 
press  his  words,  beginning  then  to  understand  the 
paralyzing  truth  that  there  was  no  longer  any  re- 


SUMMER  171 

solving  this  or  that;  with  love  like  his  he  had  ceased 
to  be  a  separate  being  with  a  separate  will.  He  was 
entwined  with  her,  could  act  only  if  her  will  and  his 
were  one.  He  would  never  be  able  to  say  to  her: 
'You  must!'  He  loved  her  too  much.  And  she 
knew  it.  So  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  forget 
the  ache,  and  make  the  hour  happy.  But  how  about 
that  other  truth — that  in  love  there  is  no  pause,  no 
resting?  .  .  .  With  any  watering,  however  scant, 
the  flower  will  grow  till  its  time  comes  to  be  plucked. 
.  .  .  This  oasis  in  the  desert — these  few  minutes 
with  her  alone,  were  swept  through  and  through 
with  a  feverish  wind.  To  be  closer!  How  not  try 
to  be  that?  How  not  long  for  her  lips  when  he  had 
but  her  hand  to  kiss?  And  how  not  be  poisoned 
with  the  thought  that  in  a  few  minutes  she  would 
leave  him  and  go  back  to  the  presence  of  that  other, 
who,  even  though  she  loathed  him,  could  see  and 
touch  her  when  he  would?  She  was  leaning  back 
in  the  very  chair  where  in  fancy  he  had  seen  her, 
and  he  only  dared  sit  at  her  feet  and  look  up.  And 
this,  which  a  week  ago  would  have  been  rapture, 
was  now  almost  torture,  so  far  did  it  fall  short  of 
his  longing.  It  was  torture,  too,  to  keep  his  voice 
in  tune  with  the  sober  sweetness  of  her  voice.  And 
bitterly  he  thought:  How  can  she  sit  there,  and  not 
want  me,  as  I  want  her?  Then  at  a  touch  of  her 
fingers  on  his  hair,  he  lost  control,  and  kissed  her 
lips.     Her  surrender  lasted  only  for  a  second. 

"No,  no — you  must  not!" 

That  mournful  surprise  sobered  him  at  once. 


172  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

He  got  up,  stood  away  from  her,  begged  to  be 
forgiven. 

And,  when  she  was  gone,  he  sat  in  the  chair  where 
she  had  sat.  That  clasp  of  her,  the  kiss  he  had 
begged  her  to  forget — to  forget! — nothing  could 
take  that  from  him.  He  had  done  wrong;  had 
startled  her,  had  fallen  short  of  chivalry!  And  yet 
— a  smile  of  utter  happiness  would  cling  about  his 
lips.  His  fastidiousness,  his  imagination  almost 
made  him  think  that  this  was  all  he  wanted.  If  he 
could  close  his  eyes,  now,  and  pass  out,  before  he 
lost  that  moment  of  half-fulfilment! 

And,  the  smile  still  on  his  lips,  he  lay  back  watch- 
ing the  flies  wheeling  and  chasing  round  the  hang- 
ing-lamp. Sixteen  of  them  there  were,  wheeling 
and  chasing — never  still! 


XII 


When,  walking  from  Lennan's  studio,  Olive  re- 
entered her  dark  little  hall,  she  approached  its  al- 
cove and  glanced  first  at  the  hat-stand.  They  were 
all  there — the  silk  hat,  the  bowler,  the  straw!  So 
he  was  in!  And  within  each  hat,  in  turn,  she  seemed 
to  see  her  husband's  head — with  the  face  turned 
away  from  her — so  distinctly  as  to  note  the  leathery 
look  of  the  skin  of  his  cheek  and  neck.  And  she 
thought:  '^I  pray  that  he  will  die!  It  is  wicked, 
but  I  pray  that  he  will  die!"  Then,  quietly,  that  he 
might  not  hear,  she  mounted  to  her  bedroom.     The 


SUMMER  173 

door  into  his  dressing-room  was  open,  and  she  went 
to  shut  it.  He  was  standing  there  at  the  win- 
dow. 

"Ah!    You're  in!    Been  anywhere? " 

"To  the  National  Gallery." 

It  was  the  first  direct  lie  she  had  ever  told  him,  and 
she  was  surprised  to  feel  neither  shame  nor  fear,  but 
rather  a  sense  of  pleasure  at  defeating  him.  He  was 
the  enemy,  all  the  more  the  enemy  because  she  was 
still  fighting  against  herself,  and,  so  strangely,  in  his 
behalf. 

"Alone?" 

"Yes." 

"  Rather  boring,  wasn't  it?  I  should  have  thought 
you'd  have  got  young  Lennan  to  take  you  there." 

"Why?" 

By  instinct  she  had  seized  on  the  boldest  answer; 
and  there  was  nothing  to  be  told  from  her  face.  If 
he  were  her  superior  in  strength,  he  was  her  inferior 
in  quickness. 

He  lowered  his  eyes,  and  said: 

"His  line,  isn't  it?" 

With  a  shrug  she  turned  away  and  shut  the  door. 
She  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  her  bed,  very  still.  In 
that  little  passage  of  wits  she  had  won,  she  could 
win  in  many  such;  but  the  full  hideousness  of  things 
had  come  to  her.  Lies!  lies!  That  was  to  be  her 
life!  That;  or  to  say  farewell  to  all  she  now  cared 
for,  to  cause  despair  not  only  in  herself,  but  in  her 
lover,  and — for  what?  In  order  that  her  body  might 
remain  at  the  disposal  of  that  man  in  the  next  room 


174  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

— her  spirit  having  flown  from  him  for  ever.  Such 
were  the  alternatives,  unless  those  words:  "Then 
come  to  me,"  were  to  be  more  than  words.  Were 
they?  Could  they  be?  They  would  mean  such 
happiness  if — if  his  love  for  her  were  more  than  a 
summer  love?  And  hers  for  him?  Was  it — were 
they — more  than  summer  loves?  How  know?  And, 
without  knowing,  how  give  such  pain  to  everyone? 
How  break  a  vow  she  had  thought  herself  quite 
above  breaking?  How  make  such  a  desperate  de- 
parture from  all  the  traditions  and  beliefs  in  which 
she  had  been  brought  up!  But  in  the  very  nature 
of  passion  is  that  which  resents  the  intrusion  of  hard 
and  fast  decisions.  .  .  .  And  suddenly  she  thought : 
If  our  love  cannot  stay  what  it  is,  and  if  I  cannot 
yet  go  to  him  for  always,  is  there  not  still  another 
way? 

She  got  up  and  began  to  dress  for  dinner.  Stand- 
ing before  her  glass  she  was  surprised  to  see  that 
her  face  showed  no  signs  of  the  fears  and  doubts 
that  were  now  her  comrades.  Was  it  because,  what- 
ever happened,  she  loved  and  was  beloved!  She 
wondered  how  she  had  looked  when  he  kissed  her 
so  passionately;  had  she  shown  her  joy  before  she 
checked  him? 

In  her  garden  by  the  river  were  certain  flow^ers 
that,  for  all  her  care,  would  grow  rank  and  of  the 
wrong  colour — wanting  a  different  soil.  Was  she, 
then,  like  those  flowers  of  hers?  Ah!  Let  her  but 
have  her  true  soil,  and  she  would  grow  straight  and 
true  enough! 


SUMMER  175 

Then  in  the  doorway  she  saw  her  husband.  She 
had  never,  till  to-day,  quite  hated  him;  but  now 
she  did,  with  a  real  blind  horrible  feehng.  What 
did  he  want  of  her  standing  there  with  those  eyes 
fixed  on  her— those  forceful  eyes,  touched  with  blood, 
that  seemed  at  once  to  threaten,  covet,  and  beseech! 
She  drew  her  wrapper  close  round  her  shoulders. 
At  that  he  came  up  and  said: 

"Look  at  me,  Olive!" 

Against  instinct  and  will  she  obeyed,  and  he  went 
on: 

"Be  careful!    I  say,  be  careful!" 

Then  he  took  her  by  the  shoulders,  and  raised 
her  up  to  him.  And,  quite  unnerved,  she  stood 
without  resisting. 

"I  want  you,"  he  said;   "I  mean  to  keep  you." 

Then,  suddenly  letting  her  go,  he  covered  his 
eyes  with  his  hands.  That  frightened  her  most — it 
was  so  unlike  him.  Not  till  now  had  she  understood 
between  what  terrifying  forces  she  was  balancing. 
She  did  not  speak,  but  her  face  grew  white.  From 
behind  those  hands  he  uttered  a  sound,  not  quite 
like  a  human  noise,  turned  sharply,  and  went  out. 
She  dropped  back  into  the  chair  before  her  mirror, 
overcome  by  the  most  singular  feeling  she  had  ever 
known;  as  if  she  had  lost  everything,  even  her  love 
for  Lennan,  and  her  longing  for  his  love.  What 
was  it  all  worth,  what  was  anything  worth  in  a 
world  like  this?  All  was  loathsome,  herself  loath- 
some! All  was  a  void!  Hateful,  hateful,  hateful! 
It  was  like  having  no  heart  at  all!    And  that  same 


176  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

evening,  when  her  husband  had  gone  down  to  the 
House,  she  wrote  to  Lennan: 

"Our  love  must  never  turn  to  earthiness  as  it 
might  have  this  afternoon.  Everything  is  black 
and  hopeless.  He  suspects.  For  you  to  come  here 
is  impossible,  and  too  dreadful  for  us  both.  And  I 
have  no  right  to  ask  you  to  be  furtive,  I  can't  bear 
to  think  of  you  like  that,  and  I  can't  bear  it  myself. 
I  don't  know  what  to  do  or  say.  Don't  try  to  see 
me  yet.     I  must  have  time,  I  must  think." 

XIII 

Colonel  Ercott  was  not  a  racing  man,  but  he  had 
in  common  with  others  of  his  countrymen  a  religious 
feeling  in  the  matter  of  the  Derby.  His  remem- 
brances of  it  went  back  to  early  youth,  for  he  had 
been  born  and  brought  up  almost  within  sound  of 
the  coaching-road  to  Epsom.  Every  Derby  and 
Oaks  day  he  had  gone  out  on  his  pony  to  watch  the 
passing  of  the  tall  hats  and  feathers  of  the  great, 
and  the  pot-hats  and  feathers  of  the  lowly;  and 
afterwards,  in  the  fields  at  home,  had  ridden  races 
with  old  Lindsay,  finishing  between  a  cow  that 
judged  and  a  clump  of  bulrushes  representing  the 
Grand  Stand. 

But  for  one  reason  or  another  he  had  never  seen 
the  great  race,  and  the  notion  that  it  was  his  duty 
to  see  it  had  now  come  to  him.  He  proposed  this 
to  Mrs.  Ercott  with  some  diffidence.     She  read  so 


SUMMER  177 

many  books — he  did  not  quite  know  whether  she 
would  approve.  Finding  that  she  did,  he  added 
casually: 

"And  we  might  take  Olive." 

Mrs.  Ercott  answered  dryly: 

''You  know  the  House  of  Commons  has  a  holi- 
day?" 

The  Colonel  murmured: 

''Oh!  I  don't  want  that  chap!" 

"Perhaps,"  said  Mrs.  Ercott,  "you  would  like 
Mark  Lennan." 

The  Colonel  looked  at  her  most  dubiously.  Dolly 
could  talk  of  it  as  a  tragedy,  and  a — a  grand  pas- 
sion, and  yet  make  a  suggestion  like  that!  Then 
his  wrinkles  began  slowly  to  come  alive,  and  he 
gave  her  waist  a  squeeze. 

Mrs.  Ercott  did  not  resist  that  treatment. 

"Take  Ohve  alone,"  she  said.  "I  don't  really 
care  to  go." 

When  the  Colonel  went  to  fetch  his  niece  he  found 
her  ready,  and  very  half-heartedly  he  asked  for 
Cramier.     It  appeared  she  had  not  told  him. 

Relieved,  yet  somewhat  disconcerted,  he  mur- 
mured : 

"He  won't  mind  not  going,  I  suppose?" 

"If  he  went,  I  should  not." 

At  this  quiet  answer  the  Colonel  was  beset  again 
by  all  his  fears.  He  put  his  white  'topper'  down, 
and  took  her  hand. 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  "I  don't  want  to  intrude 
upon  your  feehngs;    but — but  is  there  anything  I 


178  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

can  do?  It's  dreadful  to  see  things  going  unhappily 
with  you!"  He  felt  his  hand  being  lifted,  her  face 
pressed  against  it;  and,  suffering  acutely,  with  his 
other  hand,  cased  in  a  bright  new  glove,  he  smoothed 
her  arm.  "We'll  have  a  jolly  good  day,  sweetheart," 
he  said,  ''and  forget  all  about  it." 

She  gave  the  hand  a  kiss  and  turned  away.  And 
the  Colonel  vowed  to  himself  that  she  should  not 
be  unhappy — lovely  creature  that  she  was,  so  deli- 
cate, and  straight,  and  fine  in  her  pearly  frock.  And 
he  pulled  himself  together,  brushing  his  white  'top- 
per' vigorously  with  his  sleeve,  forgetting  that  this 
kind  of  hat  has  no  nap. 

And  so  he  was  tenderness  itself  on  the  journey 
down,  satisfying  all  her  wants  before  she  had  them, 
telling  her  stories  of  Indian  life,  and  consulting  her 
carefully  as  to  which  horse  they  should  back.  There 
was  the  Duke's,  of  course,  but  there  was  another 
animal  that  appealed  to  him  greatly.  His  friend 
Tabor  had  given  him  the  tip — Tabor,  who  had  the 
best  Arabs  in  all  India — and  at  a  nice  price.  A  man 
who  practically  never  gambled,  the  Colonel  liked  to 
feel  that  his  fancy  would  bring  him  in  something 
really  substantial — if  it  won;  the  idea  that  it  could 
lose  not  really  troubling  him.  However,  they  would 
see  it  in  the  paddock,  and  judge  for  themselves. 
The  paddock  was  the  place,  away  from  all  the  dust 
and  racket — Olive  would  enjoy  the  paddock!  Once 
on  the  course,  they  neglected  the  first  race;  it  was 
more  important,  the  Colonel  thought,  that  they 
should  lunch.     He  wanted  to  see  more  colour  in  her 


SUMMER  179 

cheeks,  wanted  to  see  her  laugh.  He  had  an  invi- 
tation to  his  old  regiment's  drag,  where  the  cham- 
pagne was  sure  to  be  good.  And  he  was  so  proud 
of  her — would  not  have  missed  those  young  fellows' 
admiration  of  her  for  the  world;  though  to  take  a 
lady  amongst  them  was,  in  fact,  against  the  rules. 
It  was  not,  then,  till  the  second  race  was  due  to 
start  that  they  made  their  way  into  the  paddock. 
Here  the  Derby  horses  were  being  led  solemnly,  at- 
tended each  by  a  little  posse  of  persons,  looking  up 
their  legs  and  down  their  ribs  to  see  whether  they 
were  worthy  of  support,  together  with  a  few  who 
liked  to  see  a  whole  horse  at  a  time.  Presently  they 
found  the  animal  which  had  been  recommended  to 
the  Colonel.  It  was  a  chestnut,  with  a  starred  fore- 
head, parading  in  a  far  corner.  The  Colonel,  who 
really  loved  a  horse,  was  deep  in  admiration.  He 
liked  its  head  and  he  liked  its  hocks;  above  all,  he 
liked  its  eye.  A  fine  creature,  all  sense  and  fire — 
perhaps  just  a  little  straight  in  the  shoulder  for  com- 
ing down  the  hill!  And  in  the  midst  of  his  exam- 
ination he  found  himself  staring  at  his  niece.  What 
breeding  the  child  showed,  with  her  dehcate  arched 
brows,  httle  ears,  and  fine,  close  nostrils;  and  the 
way  she  moved — so  sure  and  spring}^'.  She  was  too 
pretty  to  suffer!  A  shame!  If  she  hadn't  been  so 
pretty  that  young  fellow  wouldn't  have  fallen  in 
love  with  her.  If  she  weren't  so  pretty — that  hus- 
band   of    hers    wouldn't !     And    the    Colonel 

dropped  his  gaze,  startled  by  the  discovery  he  had 
stumbled  on.     If  she  hadn't  been  so  pretty!    Was 


l8o  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

that  the  meaning  of  it  all?  The  cynicism  of  his  own 
reflection  struck  him  between  wind  and  water.  And 
yet  something  in  himself  seemed  to  confirm  it  some- 
how. What  then?  Was  he  to  let  them  tear  her 
in  two  between  them,  destroying  her,  because  she 
was  so  pretty?  And  somehow  this  discovery  of  his 
— that  passion  springs  from  worship  of  beauty  and 
warmth,  of  form  and  colour — disturbed  him  hor- 
ribly, for  he  had  no  habit  of  philosophy.  The 
thought  seemed  to  him  strangely  crude,  even  im- 
moral. That  she  should  be  thus  between  two  rav- 
ening desires — a  bird  between  two  hawks,  a  fruit 
between  two  mouths!  It  was  a  way  of  looking  at 
things  that  had  never  before  occurred  to  him.  The 
idea  of  a  husband  clutching  at  his  wife,  the  idea  of 
that  young  man  who  looked  so  gentle,  swooping 
down  on  her;  and  the  idea  that  if  she  faded,  lost 
her  looks,  went  off,  their  greed,  indeed,  any  man's, 
would  die  away — all  these  horrible  ideas  hurt  him 
the  more  for  the  remarkable  suddenness  with  which 
they  had  come  to  him.  A  tragic  business!  Dolly 
had  said  so.  Queer  and  quick — were  women!  But 
his  resolution  that  the  day  was  to  be  jolly  soon  re- 
curred to  him,  and  he  hastily  resumed  inspection  of 
his  fancy.  Perhaps  they  ought  to  have  a  ten-pound 
note  on  it,  and  they  had  better  get  back  to  the 
Stand!  And  as  they  went  the  Colonel  saw,  stand- 
ing beneath  a  tree  at  a  Httle  distance,  a  young  man 
that  he  could  have  sworn  was  Lennan.  Not  likely 
for  an  artist  chap  to  be  down  here!  But  it  was 
undoubtedly  young  Lennan,  brushed-up,  in  a  top- 


SUMMER  i8i 

hat.  Fortunately,  however,  his  face  was  not  turned 
in  their  direction.  He  said  nothing  to  Ohve,  not 
wishing — especially  after  those  unpleasant  thoughts 
— to  take  responsibility,  and  he  kept  her  moving 
towards  the  gate,  congratulating  himself  that  his 
eyes  had  been  so  sharp.  In  the  crush  there  he  was 
separated  from  her  a  little,  but  she  was  soon  beside 
him  again;  and  more  than  ever  he  congratulated 
himself  that  nothing  had  occurred  to  upset  her  and 
spoil  the  day.  Her  cheeks  were  warm  enough  now, 
her  dark  eyes  glowing.  She  w^as  excited  no  doubt 
by  thoughts  of  the  race,  and  of  the  '  tenner '  he  was 
going  to  put  on  for  her. 

He  recounted  the  matter  afterwards  to  IMrs.  Er- 
cott.  "That  chestnut  Tabor  put  me  on  to  finished 
nowhere — couldn't  get  down  the  hill — knew  it 
wouldn't  the  moment  I  set  eyes  on  it.  But  the 
child  enjoyed  herself.  Wish  you'd  been  there,  my 
dear!"  Of  his  deeper  thoughts  and  of  that  glimpse 
of  young  Lennan  he  did  not  speak,  for  on  the  way 
home  an  ugly  suspicion  had  attacked  him.  Had 
the  young  fellow,  after  all,  seen  and  managed  to 
get  close  to  her  in  the  crush  at  the  paddock  gate- 
way? 

XIV 

That  letter  of  hers  fanned  the  flame  in  Lennan  as 
nothing  had  yet  fanned  it.  Earthiness!  Was  it 
earthiness  to  love  as  he  did?  If  so,  then  not  for  all 
the  world  would  he  be  otherwise  than  earthy.     In 


l82  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

the  shock  of  reading  it,  he  crossed  his  Rubicon,  and 
burned  his  boats  behind  him.  No  more  did  the 
pale  ghost,  chivalrous  devotion,  haunt  him.  He 
knew  now  that  he  could  not  stop  short.  Since  she 
asked  him,  he  must  not,  of  course,  try  to  see  her 
just  yet.  But  when  he  did,  then  he  would  fight 
for  his  life;  the  thought  that  she  might  be  meaning 
to  slip  away  from  him  was  too  utterly  unbearable. 
But  she  could  not  be  meaning  that!  She  would 
never  be  so  cruel!  Ah!  she  would — she  must  come 
to  him  in  the  end!  The  world,  life  itself,  would  be 
well  lost  for  love  of  her! 

Thus  resolved,  he  was  even  able  to  work  again; 
and  all  that  Tuesday  he  modelled  at  a  big  version 
of  the  fantastic,  bull-like  figure  he  had  conceived 
after  the  Colonel  left  him  up  on  the  hillside  at 
Beaulieu.  He  worked  at  it  with  a  sort  of  evil  joy. 
Into  this  creature  he  would  put  the  spirit  of  pos- 
session that  held  her  from  him.  And  while  his 
fingers  forced  the  clay,  he  felt  as  if  he  had  Cramier's 
neck  within  his  grip.  Yet,  now  that  he  had  re- 
solved to  take  her  if  he  could,  he  had  not  quite  the 
same  hatred.  After  all,  this  man  loved  her  too, 
could  not  help  it  that  she  loathed  him;  could  not 
help  it  that  he  had  the  disposition  of  her,  body  and 
soul ! 

June  had  come  in  with  skies  of  a  blue  that  not 
even  London  glare  and  dust  could  pale.  In  every 
square  and  park  and  patch  of  green  the  air  sim- 
mered wdth  life  and  ^^dth  the  music  of  birds  swaying 
on  little  boughs.     Piano  organs  in  the  streets  were 


SUMMER  183 

no  longer  wistful  for  the  South;  lovers  already  sat 
in  the  shade  of  trees. 

To  remain  indoors,  when  he  was  not  working, 
was  sheer  torture;  for  he  could  not  read,  and  had 
lost  all  interest  in  the  Httle  excitements,  amuse- 
ments, occupations  that  go  to  make  up  the  normal 
life  of  man.  Every  outer  thing  seemed  to  have 
dropped  off,  shrivelled,  leaving  him  just  a  condi- 
tion of  the  spirit,  a  state  of  mind. 

Lying  awake  he  would  think  of  things  in  the  past, 
and  they  would  mean  nothing — all  dissolved  and 
dispersed  by  the  heat  of  this  feeling  in  him.  In- 
deed, his  sense  of  isolation  was  so  strong  that  he 
could  not  even  believe  that  he  had  lived  through 
the  facts  which  his  memory  apprehended.  He  had 
become  one  burning  mood — that,  and  nothing  more. 

To  be  out,  especially  amongst  trees,  was  the  only 
solace. 

And  he  sat  for  a  long  time  that  evening  under  a 
large  Ume-tree  on  a  knoll  above  the  Serpentine. 
There  was  very  little  breeze,  just  enough  to  keep 
alive  a  kind  of  whispering.  What  if  men  and  women, 
when  they  had  Hved  their  gusty  lives,  became  trees ! 
What  if  someone  who  had  burned  and  ached  were 
now  spreading  over  him  this  leafy  peace — this  blue- 
black  shadow  against  the  stars?  Or  were  the  stars, 
perhaps,  the  souls  of  men  and  women  escaped  for 
ever  from  love  and  longing?  He  broke  off  a  branch 
of  the  lime  and  drew  it  across  his  face.  It  was  not 
yet  in  flower,  but  it  smelled  lemony  and  fresh  even 
here  in  London.     If  only  for  a  moment  he  could 


i84  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

desert  his  own  heart,  and  rest  with  the  trees  and 
stars ! 

No  further  letter  came  from  her  next  morning, 
and  he  soon  lost  his  power  to  work.  It  was  Derby 
Day.  He  determined  to  go  down.  Perhaps  she 
would  be  there.  Even  if  she  were  not,  he  might 
find  some  little  distraction  in  the  crowd  and  the 
horses.  He  had  seen  her  in  the  paddock  long  before 
the  Colonel's  sharp  eyes  detected  him;  and,  follow- 
ing in  the  crush,  managed  to  touch  her  hand  in  the 
crowded  gateway,  and  whisper:  "To-morrow,  the 
National  Gallery,  at  four  o'clock — by  the  Bacchus 
and  Ariadne.  For  God's  sake!"  Her  gloved  hand 
pressed  his  hard;  and  she  was  gone.  He  stayed  in 
the  paddock,  too  happy  almost  to  breathe.  .  .  . 

Next  day,  while  waiting  before  that  picture,  he 
looked  at  it  with  wonder.  For  there  seemed  his 
own  passion  transfigured  in  the  darkening  star- 
crowned  sky,  and  the  eyes  of  the  leaping  god.  In 
spirit,  was  he  not  always  rushing  to  her  like  that? 
Minutes  passed,  and  she  did  not  come.  What 
should  he  do  if  she  failed  him?  Surely  die  of  dis- 
appointment and  despair.  ...  He  had  little  enough 
experience  as  yet  of  the  toughness  of  the  human 
heart;  how  Hfe  bruises  and  crushes,  yet  leaves  it 
beating.  .  .  .  Then,  from  an  unlikely  quarter,  he 
saw  her  coming. 

They  walked  in  silence  down  to  the  quiet  rooms 
where  the  Turner  watercolours  hung.  No  one,  save 
two  Frenchmen  and  an  old  official,  watched  them 
passing  slowly  before  those  little  pictures,  till  they 


SUMMER  185 

came  to  the  end  wall,  and,  unseen,  unheard  by  any 
but  her,  he  could  begin! 

The  arguments  he  had  so  carefully  rehearsed  were 
all  forgotten;  nothing  left  but  an  incoherent  plead- 
ing. Life  without  her  was  not  Ufe;  and  they  had 
only  one  life  for  love — one  summer.  It  was  all 
dark  where  she  was  not — the  very  sun  itself  was 
dark.  Better  to  die  than  to  live  such  false,  broken 
lives,  apart  from  each  other.  Better  to  die  at  once 
than  to  live  wanting  each  other,  longing  and  long- 
ing, and  watching  each  other's  sorrow.  And  all  for 
the  sake  of  what?  It  maddened,  killed  him,  to 
think  of  that  man  touching  her  when  he  knew  she 
did  but  hate  him.  It  shamed  all  manhood;  it 
could  not  be  good  to  help  such  things  to  be.  A 
vow  when  the  spirit  of  it  was  gone  was  only  super- 
stition; it  was  wicked  to  waste  one's  life  for  the 
sake  of  that.  Society — she  knew,  she  must  know — 
only  cared  for  the  forms,  the  outsides  of  things. 
And  what  did  it  matter  what  Society  thought?  It 
had  no  soul,  no  feeling,  nothing.  And  if  it  were 
said  they  ought  to  sacrifice  themselves  for  the  sake 
of  others,  to  make  things  happier  in  the  world,  she 
must  know  that  was  only  true  when  love  was  light 
and  selfish ;  but  not  when  people  loved  as  they  did, 
with  all  their  hearts  and  souls,  so  that  they  would 
die  for  each  other  any  minute,  so  that  without  each 
other  there  was  no  meaning  in  anything.  It  would 
not  help  a  single  soul,  for  them  to  murder  their  love 
and  all  the  happiness  of  their  lives;  to  go  on  in  a 
sort  of  living  death.     Even  if  it  were  wrong,  he 


1 86  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

would  rather  do  that  wrong,  and  take  the  conse- 
quences! But  it  was  not,  it  could  not  be  wrong, 
when  they  felt  like  that! 

And  all  the  time  that  he  was  pouring  forth  those 
supplications,  his  eyes  searched  and  searched  her 
face.  But  there  only  came  from  her:  "I  don't 
know — I  can't  tell — if  only  I  knew!"  And  then  he 
was  silent,  stricken  to  the  heart;  till,  at  a  look  or  a 
touch  from  her,  he  would  break  out  again:  "You 
do  love  me — you  do;  then  what  does  anything  else 
matter?" 

And  so  it  went  on  and  on  that  summer  afternoon, 
in  the  deserted  room  meant  for  such  other  things, 
where  the  two  Frenchmen  were  too  sympathetic, 
and  the  old  ofi&cial  too  drowsy,  to  come.  Then  it 
all  narrowed  to  one  fierce,  insistent  question: 

"What  is  it — what  is  it  you're  afraid  of?" 

But  to  that,  too,  he  got  only  the  one  mournful 
answer,  paralyzing  in  its  fateful  monotony. 

"I  don't  know— I  can't  tell!" 

It  was  awful  to  go  on  thus  beating  against  this 
uncanny,  dark,  shadowy  resistance;  -these  unreal 
doubts  and  dreads,  that  by  their  very  dumbness 
were  becoming  real  to  him,  too.  If  only  she  could 
tell  him  what  she  feared!  It  could  not  be  poverty 
• — that  was  not  like  her — besides,  he  had  enough 
for  both.  It  could  not  be  loss  of  a  social  position, 
which  was  but  irksome  to  her!  Surely  it  was  not 
fear  that  he  would  cease  to  love  her!  What  was 
it?     In  God's  name — what? 

To-morrow — she  had  told  him — she  was  to  go 


SUMMER  187 

down,  alone,  to  the  river-house;  would  she  not 
come  now,  this  very  minute,  to  him  instead?  And 
they  would  start  off — that  night,  back  to  the  South 
where  their  love  had  flowered.  But  again  it  was: 
"I  can't!  I  don't  know — I  must  have  time!"  And 
yet  her  eyes  had  that  brooding  love-light.  How 
could  she  hold  back  and  waver?  But,  utterly  ex- 
hausted, he  did  not  plead  again;  did  not  even  resist 
when  she  said:  "You  must  go,  now;  and  leave  me 
to  get  back!  I  will  write.  Perhaps — soon — I  shall 
know."  He  begged  for,  and  took  one  kiss;  then, 
passing  the  old  official,  went  quickly  up  and  out. 

XV 

He  reached  his  rooms  overcome  by  a  lassitude 
that  was  not,  however,  quite  despair.  He  had 
made  his  effort,  failed — but  there  was  still  within 
him  the  unconquerable  hope  of  the  passionate  lover. 
...  As  well  try  to  extinguish  in  full  June  the  beat- 
ing of  the  heart  of  summer;  deny  to  the  flowers 
their  deepening  hues,  or  to  winged  life  its  slumbrous 
buzzing,  as  stifle  in  such  a  lover  his  conviction  of 
fulfilment.  .  .  . 

He  lay  down  on  a  couch,  and  there  stayed  a  long 
time  quite  still,  his  forehead  pressed  against  the 
wall.  His  will  was  already  beginning  to  recover 
for  a  fresh  attempt.  It  was  merciful  that  she  was 
going  away  from  Cramicr,  going  to  where  he  had 
in  fancy  watched  her  feed  her  doves.  No  laws,  no 
fears,  not  even  her  commands  could  stop  his  fancy 


i88  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

from  conjuring  her  up  by  day  and  night.     He  had 
but  to  close  his  eyes,  and  she  was  there. 

A  ring  at  the  bell,  repeated  several  times,  roused 
him  at  last  to  go  to  the  door.  His  caller  was  Rob- 
ert Cramier.  And  at  sight  of  him,  all  Lennan's 
lethargy  gave  place  to  a  steely  feeling.  What  had 
brought  him  here?  Had  he  been  spying  on  his  wife? 
The  old  longing  for  physical  combat  came  over  him. 
Cramier  was  perhaps  fifteen  years  his  senior,  but 
taller,  heavier,  thicker.  Chances,  then,  were  pretty 
equal ! 

"Won't  you  come  in?"  he  said. 

"Thanks." 

The  voice  had  in  it  the  same  mockery  as  on 
Sunday;  and  it  shot  through  him  that  Cramier  had 
thought  to  find  his  wife  here.  If  so,  he  did  not  be- 
tray it  by  any  crude  look  round.  He  came  in  with 
his  deliberate  step,  Hght  and  well-poised  for  so  big 
a  man. 

"So  this,"  he  said,  "is  where  you  produce  your 
masterpieces!  Anything  great  since  you  came 
back?" 

Lennan  lifted  the  cloths  from  the  half-modelled 
figure  of  his  bull-man.  He  felt  maUcious  pleasure 
in  doing  that.  Would  Cramier  recognize  himself 
in  this  creature  with  the  horn-Hke  ears,  and  great 
bossed  forehead?  If  this  man  who  had  her  happi- 
ness beneath  his  heel  had  come  here  to  mock,  he 
should  at  all  events  get  what  he  had  come  to  give. 
And  he  waited. 

"I  see.     You  are  giving  the  poor  brute  horns!" 


SUMMER  189 

If  Cramier  had  seen,  he  had  dared  to  add  a  touch 
of  cynical  humour,  which  the  sculptor  himself  had 
never  thought  of.  And  this  even  evoked  in  the 
young  man  a  kind  of  admiring  compunction. 

"Those  are  not  horns,"  he  said  gently;  "only 
ears." 

Cramier  lifted  a  hand  and  touched  the  edge  of 
his  own  ear. 

"Not  quite  like  that,  are  they — human  ears? 
But  I  suppose  you  would  call  this  symbolic.  What, 
if  I  may  ask,  does  it  represent?" 

All  the  softness  in  Lennan  vanished. 

"If  you  can't  gather  that  from  looking,  it  must 
be  a  failure." 

"Not  at  all.  If  I  am  right,  you  want  something 
for  it  to  tread  on,  don't  you,  to  get  your  full  effect?" 

Lennan  touched  the  base  of  the  clay. 

"The  broken  curve  here" then,  with  sudden 

disgust  at  this  fencing,  was  silent.  What  had  the 
man  come  for?  He  must  want  something.  And, 
as  if  answering,  Cramier  said: 

"To  pass  to  another  subject — you  see  a  good  deal 
of  my  wife.  I  just  wanted  to  tell  you  that  I  don't 
very  much  care  that  you  should.  It  is  as  well  to 
be  quite  frank,  I  think." 

Lennan  bowed. 

"Is  that  not,"  he  said,  "perhaps  rather  a  matter 
for  her  decision?" 

That  heavy  figure — those  threatening  eyes!  The 
whole  thing  was  like  a  dream  come  true! 

"I  do  not  feel  it  so.     I  am  not  one  of  those  who 


I90  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

let  things  drift.  Please  understand  me.  You  come 
between  us  at  your  peril." 

Lennan  kept  silence  for  a  moment,  then  he  said 
quietly : 

"Can  one  come  between  two  people  who  have 
ceased  to  have  anything  in  common?" 

The  veins  in  Cramier's  forehead  were  swollen, 
his  face  and  neck  had  grown  crimson.  And  Len- 
nan thought  with  strange  elation:  Now  he's  going 
to  hit  me!  He  could  hardly  keep  his  hands  from 
shooting  out  and  seizing  in  advance  that  great 
strong  neck.  If  he  could  strangle,  and  have  done 
with  him! 

But,  quite  suddenly,  Cramier  turned  on  his  heel. 
"I  have  warned  you,"  he  said,  and  went. 

Lennan  took  a  long  breath.  So!  That  was  over, 
and  he  knew  where  he  was.  If  Cramier  had  struck 
out,  he  would  surely  have  seized  his  neck  and  held 
on  till  life  was  gone.  Nothing  should  have  shaken 
him  off.  In  fancy  he  could  see  himself  swaying, 
writhing,  reeling,  battered  about  by  those  heavy 
fists,  but  always  with  his  hands  on  the  thick  neck, 
squeezing  out  its  life.  He  could  feel,  absolutely  feel, 
the  last  reel  and  stagger  of  that  great  bulk  crashing 
down,  dragging  him  with  it,  till  it  lay  upturned, 
still.  He  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hands.  .  .  . 
Thank  God!    The  fellow  had  not  hit  out! 

He  went  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and  stood  lean- 
ing against  the  door-post.  All  was  still  and  drowsy 
out  there  in  that  quiet  backwater  of  a  street.  Not 
a   soul   in   sight!    How   still,   for   London!     Only 


SUMMER  191 

the  birds.  In  a  neighbouring  studio  someone  was 
playing  Chopin.  Queer!  He  had  almost  forgotten 
there  was  such  a  thing  as  Chopin.  A  mazurka! 
Spinning  hke  some  top  thing,  round  and  round — ■ 
weird  little  tune!  .  .  .  Well,  and  what  now?  Only 
one  thing  certain.  Sooner  give  up  Ufe  than  give 
her  up!  Far  sooner!  Love  her,  achieve  her — or 
give  up  everything,  and  drown  to  that  tune  going 
on  and  on,  that  little  dancing  dirge  of  summer! 

XVI 

At  her  cottage  Olive  stood  often  by  the  river. 

What  lay  beneath  all  that  bright  water — what 
strange,  deep,  swaying,  life  so  far  below  the  rufSing 
of  wind,  and  the  shadows  of  the  willow  trees?  Was 
love  down  there,  too?  Love  between  sentient  things, 
where  it  was  almost  dark;  or  had  all  passion  climbed 
up  to  rustle  with  the  reeds,  and  float  with  the  water- 
flowers  in  the  sunhght?  Was  there  colour?  Or  had 
colour  been  drowned?  No  scent  and  no  music;  but 
movement  there  would  be,  for  all  the  dim  groping 
things  bending  one  way  to  the  current — movement, 
no  less  than  in  the  aspen-leaves,  never  quite  still, 
and  the  winged  droves  of  the  clouds.  And  if  it 
were  dark  down  there,  it  was  dark,  too,  above  the 
water;  and  hearts  ached,  and  eyes  just  as  much 
searched  for  that  which  did  not  come. 

To  watch  it  always  flowing  by  to  the  sea;  never 
looking  back,  never  swaying  this  way  or  that;  drift- 
ing along,  quiet  as  Fate — dark,  or  glamorous  with 


192  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

the  gold  and  moonlight  of  these  beautiful  days  and 
nights,  when  every  flower  in  her  garden,  in  the  fields, 
and  along  the  river  banks,  was  full  of  sweet  life; 
when  dog-roses  starred  the  lanes,  and  in  the  wood 
the  bracken  was  nearly  a  foot  high. 

She  was  not  alone  there,  though  she  would  much 
rather  have  been;  two  days  after  she  left  London 
her  Uncle  and  Aunt  had  joined  her.  It  was  from 
Cramier  they  had  received  their  invitation.  He  him- 
self had  not  yet  been  down. 

Every  night,  having  parted  from  Mrs.  Ercott  and 
gone  up  the  wide  shallow  stairs  to  her  room,  she 
would  sit  down  at  the  window  to  write  to  Lennan, 
one  candle  beside  her — one  pale  flame  for  comrade, 
as  it  might  be  his  spirit.  Every  evening  she  poured 
out  to  him  her  thoughts,  and  ended  always:  "Have 
patience!"  She  was  still  waiting  for  courage  to  pass 
that  dark  hedge  of  impalpable  doubts  and  fears 
and  scruples,  of  a  dread  that  she  could  not  make 
articulate  even  to  herself.  Having  finished,  she 
would  lean  out  into  the  night.  The  Colonel,  his 
black  figure  cloaked  against  the  dew,  would  be  pa- 
cing up  and  down  the  lawn,  with  his  good-night 
cigar,  whose  fiery  spark  she  could  just  discern;  and, 
beyond,  her  ghostly  dove-house;  and,  beyond,  the 
river — flowing.  Then  she  would  clasp  herself  close — ■ 
afraid  to  stretch  out  her  arms,  lest  she  should  be  seen. 

Each  morning  she  rose  early,  dressed,  and  slipped 
away  to  the  viUage  to  post  her  letter.  From  the 
woods  across  the  river  wild  pigeons  would  be  calling 
— as  though  Love  itself  pleaded  with  her  afresh 


SUMMER  193 

each  day.  She  was  back  well  before  breakfast,  to  go 
up  to  her  room  and  come  down  again  as  if  for  the 
first  time.  The  Colonel,  meeting  her  on  the  stairs, 
or  in  the  hall,  would  say:  "Ah,  my  dear!  just 
beaten  you!  Slept  well?"  And,  while  her  lips 
touched  his  cheek,  slanted  at  the  proper  angle  for 
uncles,  he  never  dreamed  that  she  had  been  three 
miles  already  through  the  dew. 

Now  that  she  was  in  the  throes  of  an  indecision, 
whose  ending,  one  way  or  the  other,  must  be  so  tre- 
mendous, now  that  she  was  in  the  very  swirl,  she 
let  no  sign  at  all  escape  her;  the  Colonel  and  even 
his  wife  were  deceived  into  thinking  that  after  all 
no  great  harm  had  been  done.  It  was  grateful  to 
them  to  think  so,  because  of  that  stewardship  at 
Monte  Carlo,  of  which  they  could  not  render  too 
good  account.  The  warm  sleepy  days,  with  a  Httle 
croquet  and  a  Httle  paddhng  on  the  river,  and  much 
sitting  out  of  doors,  when  the  Colonel  would  read 
aloud  from  Tennyson,  were  very  pleasant.  To  him 
— if  not  to  Mrs.  Ercott — it  was  especially  jolly  to 
be  out  of  Town  'this  confounded  crowded  time  of 
year.'  And  so  the  days  of  early  June  went  by, 
each  finer  than  the  last. 

And  then  Cramier  came  down,  without  warning 
on  a  Friday  evening.  It  was  hot  in  London  .  .  . 
the  session  dull.  .  .  .  The  Jubilee  turning  every- 
thing upside  down.  .  .  .  They  were  lucky  to  be 
out  of  Town! 

A  silent  dinner — that! 

Mrs.  Ercott  noticed  that  he  drank  wine  like  water, 


194  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

and  for  minutes  at  a  time  fixed  his  eyes,  that  looked 
heavy  as  if  he  had  not  been  sleeping,  not  on  his 
wife's  face  but  on  her  neck.  If  Olive  really  disliked 
and  feared  him — as  John  would  have  it — she  dis- 
guised her  feelings  very  well !  For  so  pale  a  woman 
she  was  looking  brilliant  that  night.  The  sun  had 
caught  her  cheeks,  perhaps.  That  black  low-cut 
frock  suited  her,  with  old  Milanese-point  lace  match- 
ing her  skin  so  well,  and  one  carnation,  of  darkest 
red,  at  her  breast.  Her  eyes  were  really  sometimes 
like  black  velvet.  It  suited  pale  women  to  have 
those  eyes,  that  looked  so  black  at  night!  She  was 
talking,  too,  and  laughing  more  than  usual.  One 
would  have  said:  A  wife  delighted  to  welcome  her 
husband !  And  yet  there  was  something — something 
in  the  air,  in  the  feel  of  things — the  lowering  fixity 
of  that  man's  eyes,  or — thunder  coming,  after  all 
this  heat!  Surely  the  night  was  unnaturally  still 
and  dark,  hardly  a  breath  of  air,  and  so  many  moths 
out  there,  passing  the  beam  of  light,  like  little  pale 
spirits  crossing  a  river!  Mrs.  Ercott  smiled,  pleased 
at  that  image.  Moths!  Men  were  like  moths; 
there  were  women  from  whom  they  could  not  keep 
away.  Yes,  there  was  something  about  Olive  that 
drew  men  to  her.  Not  meretricious — to  do  her  jus- 
tice, not  that  at  all;  but  something  soft,  and — 
fatal;  like  one  of  these  candle-flames  to  the  poor 
moths.  John's  eyes  were  never  quite  as  she  knew 
them  when  he  was  looking  at  Olive;  and  Robert 
Cramier's — what  a  queer,  drugged  look  they  had! 
As  for  that  other  poor  young  fellow — she  had  never 


SUMMER  195 

forgotten  his  face  when  they  came  on  him  in  the 
Park! 

And  when  after  dinner  they  sat  on  the  veranda, 
they  were  all  more  silent  still,  just  watching,  it 
seemed,  the  smoke  of  their  cigarettes,  rising  quite 
straight,  as  though  wind  had  been  withdrawn  from 
the  world.  The  Colonel  twice  endeavoured  to  speak 
about  the  moon:  It  ought  to  be  up  by  now!  It 
was  going  to  be  full. 

And  then  Cramier  said:  "Put  on  that  scarf  thing, 
Olive,  and  come  round  the  garden  with  me." 

Mrs.  Ercott  admitted  to  herself  now  that  what 
John  said  was  true.  Just  one  gleam  of  eyes,  turned 
quickly  this  way  and  that,  as  a  bird  looks  for  escape; 
and  then  Olive  had  got  up  and  quietly  gone  with 
him  down  the  path,  till  their  silent  figures  were  lost 
to  sight. 

Disturbed  to  the  heart,  Mrs.  Ercott  rose  and 
went  over  to  her  husband's  chair.  He  was  frowning, 
and  staring  at  his  evening  shoe  balanced  on  a  single 
toe.  He  looked  up  at  her  and  put  out  his  hand. 
Mrs.  Ercott  gave  it  a  squeeze;  she  wanted  comfort. 

The  Colonel  spoke: 

"It's  heavy  to-night,  Dolly.  I  don't  like  the 
feel  of  it." 

XVII 

They  had  passed  without  a  single  word  spoken, 
down  through  the  laurels  and  guelder  roses  to  the 
river  bank;    then  he  had  turned  to  the  right,  and 


196  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

gone  along  it  under  the  dove-house,  to  the  yew-trees. 
There  he  had  stopped,  in  the  pitch  darkness  of  that 
foUage.  It  seemed  to  her  dreadfully  still;  if  only 
there  had  been  the  faintest  breeze,  the  faintest  lisp- 
ing of  reeds  on  the  water,  one  bird  to  make  a  sound; 
but  nothing,  nothing  save  his  breathing,  deep,  irreg- 
ular, with  a  quiver  in  it.  What  had  he  brought  her 
here  for?  To  show  her  how  utterly  she  was  his? 
Was  he  never  going  to  speak,  never  going  to  say 
whatever  it  was  he  had  in  mind  to  say?  If  only 
he  would  not  touch  her! 

Then  he  moved,  and  a  stone  dislodged  fell  with  a 
splash  into  the  water.  She  could  not  help  a  little 
gasp.  How  black  the  river  looked!  But  slowly, 
beyond  the  dim  shape  of  the  giant  poplar,  a  shiver 
of  light  stole  outwards  across  the  blackness  from  the 
far  bank — the  moon,  whose  rim  she  could  now  see 
rising,  of  a  thick  gold  like  a  coin,  above  the  woods. 
Her  heart  went  out  to  that  warm  light.  At  all 
events  there  was  one  friendly  inhabitant  of  this  dark- 
ness. 

Suddenly  she  felt  his  hands  on  her  waist.  She  did 
not  move,  her  heart  beat  too  furiously;  but  a  sort 
of  prayer  fluttered  up  from  it  against  her  lips.  In  the 
grip  of  those  heavy  hands  was  such  quivering  force! 

His  voice  sounded  very  husky  and  strange:  " Olive, 
this  can't  go  on.     I  suffer.     My  God!     I  suffer!" 

A  pang  went  through  her,  a  sort  of  surprise. 
Suffer!  She  might  wish  him  dead,  but  she  did  not 
want  him  to  suffer — God  knew!  And  yet,  gripped 
by  those  hands,  she  could  not  say:   I  am  sorry! 


SUMMER  197 

He  made  a  sound  that  was  almost  a  groan,  and 
dropped  on  his  knees.  Feehng  herself  held  fast, 
she  tried  to  push  his  forehead  back  from  her  waist. 
It  was  fiery  hot ;  and  she  heard  him  mutter :  "Have 
mercy!  Love  me  a  httle!"  But  the  clutch  of  his 
hands,  never  still  on  the  thin  silk  of  her  dress,  turned 
her  faint.  She  tried  to  writhe  away,  but  could  not; 
stood  still  again,  and  at  last  found  her  voice. 

"Mercy?  Can  I  ma^e  myself  love?  No  one  ever 
could  since  the  world  began.  Please,  please  get  up. 
Let  me  go!" 

But  he  was  pulling  her  down  to  him  so  that  she 
was  forced  on  to  her  knees  on  the  grass,  with  her 
face  close  to  his.  A  low  moaning  was  coming  from 
him.  It  was  horrible — so  horrible!  And  he  went 
on  pleading,  the  words  all  confused,  not  looking  in 
her  face.  It  seemed  to  her  that  it  would  never  end, 
that  she  would  never  get  free  of  that  grip,  away 
from  that  stammering,  whispering  voice.  She  stayed 
by  instinct  utterly  still,  closing  her  eyes.  Then  she 
felt  his  gaze  for  the  first  time  that  evening  on  her 
face,  and  realized  that  he  had  not  dared  to  look 
until  her  eyes  were  closed,  for  fear  of  reading  what 
was  in  them.     She  said  very  gently: 

"Please  let  me  go.     I  think  I'm  going  to  faint." 

He  relaxed  the  grip  of  his  arms;  she  sank  down 
and  stayed  unmoving  on  the  grass.  After  such  utter 
stillness  that  she  hardly  knew  whether  he  were  there 
or  not,  she  felt  his  hot  hand  on  her  bare  shoulder. 
Was  it  all  to  begin  again?  She  shrank  down  lower 
still,  and  a  little  moan  escaped  her.  He  let  her  go 
suddenly,  and,  when  at  last  she  looked  up,  was  gone. 


198  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

She  got  to  her  feet  trembling,  and  moved  quickly 
from  under  the  yew-trees.  She  tried  to  think  — 
tried  to  understand  exactly  what  this  portended  for 
her,  for  him,  for  her  lover.  But  she  could  not. 
There  was  around  her  thoughts  the  same  breathless 
darkness  that  brooded  over  this  night.  Ah!  but  to 
the  night  had  been  given  that  pale-gold  moon-ray, 
to  herself  nothing,  no  faintest  gleam;  as  well  try 
to  pierce  below  the  dark  surface  of  that  water! 

She  passed  her  hands  over  her  face,  and  hair,  and 
dress.  How  long  had  it  lasted?  How  long  had  they 
been  out  here?  And  she  began  slowly  moving  back 
towards  the  house.  Thank  God!  She  had  not 
yielded  to  fear  or  pity,  not  uttered  falsities,  not 
pretended  she  could  love  him,  and  betrayed  her 
heart.  That  would  have  been  the  one  unbearable 
thing  to  have  been  left  remembering!  She  stood 
long  looking  down,  as  if  trying  to  see  the  future  in 
her  dim  flower-beds;  then,  bracing  herself,  hurried 
to  the  house.  No  one  was  on  the  veranda,  no  one 
in  the  drawing-room.  She  looked  at  the  clock. 
Nearly  eleven.  Ringing  for  the  servant  to  shut  the 
windows,  she  stole  up  to  her  room.  Had  her  hus- 
band gone  away  as  he  had  come?  Or  would  she 
presently  again  be  face  to  face  with  that  dread,  the 
nerve  of  which  never  stopped  aching  now,  dread  of 
the  night  when  he  was  near?  She  determined  not 
to  go  to  bed,  and  drawing  a  long  chair  to  the  win- 
dow, wrapped  herself  in  a  gown,  and  lay  back. 

The  flower  from  her  dress,  miraculously  uncrushed 
in  those  dark  minutes  on  the  grass,  she  set  in  water 
beside  her  at  the  window — Mark's  favourite  flower, 


SUMMER  199 

he  had  once  told  her;    it  was  a  comfort,  with  its 
scent,  and  hue,  and  memory  of  him. 

Strange  that  in  her  Hfe,  with  all  the  faces  seen, 
and  people  known,  she  had  not  loved  one  till  she 
had  met  Lennan!  She  had  even  been  sure  that 
love  would  never  come  to  her;  had  not  wanted  it — 
very  much;  had  thought  to  go  on  well  enough,  and 
pass  out  at  the  end,  never  having  known,  or  much 
cared  to  know,  full  summer.  Love  had  taken  its 
revenge  on  her  now  for  all  slighted  love  offered  her 
in  the  past;  for  the  one  hated  love  that  had  to-night 
been  on  its  knees  to  her.  They  said  it  must  always 
come  once  to  every  man  and  woman — this  witchery, 
this  dark  sweet  feeling,  springing  up,  who  knew  how 
or  why?  She  had  not  believed,  but  now  she  knew. 
And  whatever  might  be  coming,  she  would  not  have 
this  different.  Since  all  things  changed,  she  must 
change  and  get  old  and  be  no  longer  pretty  for  him 
to  look  at,  but  this  in  her  heart  could  not  change. 
She  felt  sure  of  that.  It  was  as  if  something  said: 
This  is  for  ever,  beyond  Hfe,  beyond  death,  this 
is  for  ever!  He  will  be  dust,  and  you  dust,  but 
your  love  will  live!  Somewhere — in  the  woods, 
among  the  flowers,  or  down  in  the  dark  water,  it 
will  haunt!  For  it  only  you  have  lived !  .  .  .  Then 
she  noticed  that  a  slender  silvery-winged  thing,  un- 
like any  moth  she  had  ever  seen,  had  settled  on 
her  gown,  close  to  her  neck.  It  seemed  to  be  sleep- 
ing, so  delicate  and  drowsy,  having  come  in  from 
the  breathless  dark,  thinking,  perhaps,  that  her 
whiteness  was  a  light.     What  dim  memory  did  it 


200  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

rouse;  something  of  him,  something  he  had  done — 
in  darkness,  on  a  night  Hke  this.  Ah,  yes!  that 
evening  after  Gorbio,  the  Httle  owl-moth  on  her 
knee!  He  had  touched  her  when  he  took  that  cosy- 
wan  velvet-eyed  thing  off  her! 

She  leaned  out  for  air.  What  a  night! — whose 
stars  were  hiding  in  the  sheer  heavy  warmth;  whose 
small,  round,  golden  moon  had  no  transparency !  A 
night  like  a  black  pansy  with  a  little  gold  heart. 
And  silent!  For,  of  the  trees,  that  whispered  so 
much  at  night,  not  even  the  aspens  had  voice.  The 
unstirring  air  had  a  dream-solidity  against  her  cheeks. 
But  in  all  the  stillness,  what  sentiency,  what  pas- 
sion— as  in  her  heart!  Could  she  not  draw  him  to 
her  from  those  woods,  from  that  dark  gleaming 
river,  draw  him  from  the  flowers  and  trees  and  the 
passion-mood  of  the  sky — draw  him  up  to  her  wait- 
ing here,  so  that  she  was  no  more  this  craving 
creature,  but  one  with  him  and  the  night!  And  she 
let  her  head  droop  down  on  her  hands. 

All  night  long  she  stayed  there  at  the  window. 
Sometimes  dozing  in  the  chair;  once  waking  with  a 
start,  fancying  that  her  husband  was  bending  over 
her.  Had  he  been — and  stolen  away?  And  the 
dawn  came;  dew-grey,  filmy  and  wistful,  woven 
round  each  black  tree,  and  round  the  white  dove- 
cot, and  falling  scarf-Hke  along  the  river.  And  the 
chirrupings  of  birds  stirred  among  leaves  as  yet  in- 
visible. 

She  slept  then. 


SUMMER  20I 


XVIII 


When  she  awoke  once  more,  in  dayhght,  smihng, 
Cramier  was  standing  beside  her  chair.  His  face, 
all  dark  and  bitter,  had  the  sodden  look  of  a  man 
very  tired. 

"So!"  he  said:  "Sleeping  this  way  doesn't  spoil 
your  dreams.  Don't  let  me  disturb  them.  I  am 
just  going  back  to  Town." 

Like  a  frightened  bird,  she  stayed,  not  stirring, 
gazing  at  his  back  as  he  leaned  in  the  window,  till, 
turning  round  on  her  again,  he  said: 

"But  remember  this:  What  I  can't  have,  no  one 
else  shall!  Do  you  understand?  No  one  else!" 
And  he  bent  down  close,  repeating:  "Do  you  under- 
stand— you  bad  wife!" 

Four  years'  submission  to  a  touch  she  shrank 
from;  one  long  effort  not  to  shrink!  Bad  wife! 
Not  if  he  killed  her  would  she  answer  now! 

"Do  you  hear?"  he  said  once  more:  "Make  up 
your  mind  to  that.     I  mean  it." 

He  had  gripped  the  arms  of  her  chair,  till  she 
could  feel  it  quiver  beneath  her.  Would  he  drive 
his  fist  into  her  face  that  she  managed  to  keep  still 
smihng?  But  there  only  passed  into  his  eyes  an 
expression  which  she  could  not  read. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "you  know!"  and  walked  heav- 
ily towards  the  door. 

The  moment  he  had  gone  she  sprang  up:  Yes, 
she  was  a  bad  wife!    A  wife  who  had  reached  the 


202  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

end  of  her  tether.  A  wife  who  hated  instead  of 
loving.  A  wife  in  prison!  Bad  wife!  Martyrdom, 
then,  for  the  sake  of  a  faith  in  her  that  was  lost  al- 
ready, could  be  but  folly.  If  she  seemed  bad  and 
false  to  him,  there  was  no  longer  reason  to  pretend 
to  be  otherwise.  No  longer  would  she,  in  the  words 
of  the  old  song: — 'sit  and  sigh — pulling  bracken, 
pulling  bracken.'  No  more  would  she  starve  for 
want  of  love,  and  watch  the  nights  throb  and  ache, 
as  last  night  had  throbbed  and  ached,  with  the  pas- 
sion that  she  might  not  satisfy. 

And  while  she  was  dressing  she  wondered  why 
she  did  not  look  tired.  To  get  out  quickly!  To 
send  her  lover  word  at  once  to  hasten  to  her  while  it 
was  safe — that  she  might  tell  him  she  was  coming 
to  him  out  of  prison!  She  would  telegraph  for  him 
to  come  that  evening  with  a  boat,  opposite  the  tall 
poplar.  She  and  her  Aunt  and  Uncle  were  to  go  to 
dinner  at  the  Rectory,  but  she  would  plead  head- 
ache at  the  last  minute.  When  the  Ercotts  had 
gone  she  would  slip  out,  and  he  and  she  would  row 
over  to  the  wood,  and  be  together  for  two  hours  of 
happiness.  And  they  must  make  a  clear  plan,  too 
— for  to-morrow  they  would  begin  their  life  together. 
But  it  would  not  be  safe  to  send  that  message  from 
the  village;  she  must  go  down  and  over  the  bridge 
to  the  post-ofi&ce  on  the  other  side,  where  they  did 
not  know  her.  It  was  too  late  now  before  break- 
fast. Better  after,  when  she  could  slip  away,  know- 
ing for  certain  that  her  husband  had  gone.  It  would 
still  not  be  too  late  for  her  telegram — Lennan  never 


SUMMER  203 

left  his  rooms  till  the  midday  post  which  brought 
her  letters. 

She  finished  dressing,  and  knowing  that  she  must 
show  no  trace  of  her  excitement,  sat  quite  still  for 
several  minutes,  forcing  herself  into  languor.  Then 
she  went  down.  Her  husband  had  breakfasted  and 
gone.  At  everything  she  did,  and  every  word  she 
spoke,  she  was  now  smiling  with  a  sort  of  wonder, 
as  if  she  were  watching  a  self,  that  she  had  aban- 
doned like  an  old  garment,  perform  for  her  amuse- 
ment. It  even  gave  her  no  feeling  of  remorse  to 
think  she  was  going  to  do  what  would  be  so  painful 
to  the  good  Colonel.  He  was  dear  to  her — but  it 
did  not  matter.  She  was  past  all  that.  Nothing 
mattered — nothing  in  the  world!  It  amused  her  to 
believe  that  her  Uncle  and  Aunt  misread  her  last 
night's  walk  in  the  dark  garden,  misread  her  lan- 
guor and  serenity.  And  at  the  first  moment  pos- 
sible she  flew  out,  and  slipped  away  under  cover  of 
the  yew-trees  towards  the  river.  Passing  the  spot 
where  her  husband  had  dragged  her  down  to  him 
on  her  knees  in  the  grass,  she  felt  a  sort  of  surprise 
that  she  could  ever  have  been  so  terrified.  What 
was  he?  The  past — nothing!  And  she  flew  on. 
She  noted  carefully  the  river  bank  opposite  the  tall 
poplar.  It  would  be  quite  easy  to  get  down  from 
there  into  a  boat.  But  they  would  not  stay  in  that 
dark  backwater.  They  would  go  over  to  the  far 
side  into  those  woods  from  which  last  night  the 
moon  had  risen,  those  woods  from  which  the  pig- 
eons mocked  her  every  morning,  those  woods  so  full 


204  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

of  summer.  Coming  back,  no  one  would  see  her 
landing;  for  it  would  be  pitch  dark  in  the  back- 
water. And,  while  she  hurried,  she  looked  back 
across  her  shoulder,  marking  where  the  water,  en- 
tering, ceased  to  be  bright.  A  dragon-fly  brushed 
her  cheek;  she  saw  it  vanish  where  the  sunlight 
failed.  How  suddenly  its  happy  flight  was  quenched 
in  that  dark  shade,  as  a  candle  flame  blown  out. 
The  tree  growth  there  was  too  thick — the  queer 
stumps  and  snags  had  uncanny  shapes,  as  of  mon- 
strous creatures,  whose  eyes  seemed  to  peer  out 
at  you.  She  shivered.  She  had  seen  those  mon- 
sters with  their  peering  eyes  somewhere.  Ah!  In 
her  dream  at  Monte  Carlo  of  that  bull-face  staring 
from  the  banks,  while  she  drifted  by,  unable  to  cry 
out.  No!  The  backwater  was  not  a  happy  place 
— they  would  not  stay  there  a  single  minute.  And 
more  swiftly  than  ever  she  flew  on  along  the  path. 
Soon  she  had  crossed  the  bridge,  sent  oft"  her  message, 
and  returned.  But  there  were  ten  hours  to  get 
through  before  eight  o'clock,  and  she  did  not  hurry 
now.  She  wanted  this  day  of  summer  to  herself 
alone,  a  day  of  dreaming  till  he  came;  this  day  for 
which  all  her  life  till  now  had  been  shaping  her — 
the  day  of  love.  Fate  was  very  wonderful!  If  she 
had  ever  loved  before;  if  she  had  known  joy  in  her 
marriage — she  could  never  have  been  feeling  what 
she  was  feeling  now,  what  she  well  knew  she  would 
never  feel  again.  She  crossed  a  new-mown  hayfield, 
and  finding  a  bank,  threw  herself  down  on  her  back 
among  its  uncut  grasses.     Far  away  at  the  other 


SUMMER  205 

end  men  were  scything.  It  was  all  very  beautiful 
— the  soft  clouds  floating,  the  clover-stalks  pushing 
themselves  against  her  palms,  and  stems  of  the  tall 
couch  grass  cool  to  her  cheeks;  little  blue  butter- 
flies; a  lark,  invisible;  the  scent  of  the  ripe  hay; 
and  the  gold-fairy  arrows  of  the  sun  on  her  face 
and  limbs.  To  grow  and  reach  the  hour  of  summer; 
all  must  do  that!  That  was  the  meaning  of  Life! 
She  had  no  more  doubts  and  fears.  She  had  no 
more  dread,  no  bitterness,  and  no  remorse  for  what 
she  was  going  to  do.  She  was  doing  it  because  she 
must.  ...  As  well  might  grass  stay  its  ripening 
because  it  shall  be  cut  down!  She  had,  instead,  a 
sense  of  something  blessed  and  uplifting.  What- 
ever Power  had  made  her  heart,  had  placed  within 
it  this  love.  Whatever  it  was,  whoever  it  was, 
could  not  be  angry  with  her! 

A  wild  bee  settled  on  her  arm,  and  she  held  it  up 
between  her  and  the  sun,  so  that  she  might  enjoy 
its  dusky  glamour.  It  would  not  sting  her — not 
to-day!  The  little  blue  butterflies,  too,  kept  alight- 
ing on  her,  who  lay  there  so  still.  And  the  love- 
songs  of  the  wood-pigeons  never  ceased,  nor  the 
faint  swish  of  scything. 

At  last  she  rose  to  make  her  way  home.  A  tele- 
gram had  come  saying  simply:  "Yes."  She  read 
it  with  an  unmoved  face,  having  resorted  again  to 
her  mask  of  languor.  Toward  tea-time  she  con- 
fessed to  headache,  and  said  she  would  lie  down. 
Up  there  in  her  room  she  spent  those  three  hours 
writing — writing  as  best  she  could  all  she  had  passed 


2o6  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

through  in  thought  and  feeling,  before  making  her 
decision.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  owed  it  to  her- 
self to  tell  her  lover  how  she  had  come  to  what  she 
had  never  thought  to  come  to.  She  put  what  she 
had  written  in  an  envelope  and  sealed  it.  She 
would  give  it  to  him,  that  he  might  read  and  under- 
stand, when  she  had  shown  him  with  all  of  her  how 
she  loved  him.  It  would  pass  the  time  for  him, 
until  to-morrow — until  they  set  out  on  their  new 
life  together.  For  to-night  they  would  make  their 
plans,  and  to-morrow  start. 

At  half-past  seven  she  sent  word  that  her  head- 
ache was  too  bad  to  allow  her  to  go  out.  This 
brought  a  visit  from  Mrs.  Ercott:  The  Colonel  and 
she  were  so  distressed;  but  perhaps  OHve  was  wise 
not  to  exert  herself !  And  presently  the  Colonel  him- 
self spoke,  lugubriously  through  the  door:  Not  well 
enough  to  come?  No  fun  without  her!  But  she 
mustn't  on  any  account  strain  herself!    No,  no! 

Her  heart  smote  her  at  that.  He  was  always  so 
good  to  her. 

At  last,  watching  from  the  corridor,  she  saw  them 
sally  forth  down  the  drive — the  Colonel  a  little  in 
advance,  carrying  his  wife's  evening  shoes.  How 
nice  he  looked — with  his  brown  face,  and  his  grey 
moustache;  so  upright,  and  concerned  with  what  he 
had  in  hand! 

There  was  no  languor  in  her  now.  She  had 
dressed  in  white,  and  now  she  took  a  blue  silk  cloak 
with  a  hood,  and  caught  up  the  flower  that  had  so 
miraculously    survived    last    night's    wearing    and 


SUMMER  207 

pinned  it  at  her  breast.  Then  making  sure  no  serv- 
ant was  about,  she  sHpped  downstairs  and  out. 
It  was  just  eight,  and  the  sun  still  glistened  on  the 
dove-cot.  She  kept  away  from  that  lest  the  birds 
should  come  fluttering  about  her,  and  betray  her 
by  cooing.  When  she  had  nearly  reached  the  tow- 
path,  she  stopped  affrighted.  Surely  something  had 
moved,  something  heavy,  with  a  sound  of  broken 
branches.  Was  it  the  memory  of  last  night  come 
on  her  again;  or,  indeed,  someone  there?  She 
walked  back  a  few  steps.  Foolish  alarm!  In  the 
meadow  beyond  a  cow  was  brushing  against  the 
hedge.  And,  stealing  along  the  grass,  out  on  to  the 
tow-path,  she  went  swiftly  towards  the  poplar. 


XIX 

A  hundred  times  in  these  days  of  her  absence 
Lennan  had  been  on  the  point  of  going  down, 
against  her  orders,  just  to  pass  the  house,  just  to 
feel  himself  within  reach,  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  her, 
perhaps,  from  afar.  If  his  body  haunted  London, 
his  spirit  had  passed  down  on  to  that  river  where 
he  had  drifted  once  already,  reconnoitring.  A  hun- 
dred times — by  day  in  fancy,  and  by  night  in  dreams 
— pulling  himself  along  by  the  boughs,  he  stole  down 
that  dim  backwater,  till  the  dark  yews  and  the  white 
dove-cot  came  into  view. 

For  he  thought  now  only  of  fulfilment.  She  was 
wasting  cruelly  away!     Why  should  he  leave  her 


2o8  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

where  she  was?  Leave  her  to  profane  herself  and 
all  womanhood  in  the  arms  of  a  man  she  hated? 

And  on  that  day  of  mid- June,  when  he  received 
her  telegram,  it  was  as  if  he  had  been  handed  the 
key  of  Paradise. 

Would  she — could  she  mean  to  come  away  with 
him  that  very  night?  He  would  prepare  for  that 
at  all  events.  He  had  so  often  in  mind  faced  this 
crisis  in  his  affairs,  that  now  it  only  meant  trans- 
lating into  action  what  had  been  carefully  thought 
out.  He  packed,  supplied  himself  liberally  with 
money,  and  wrote  a  long  letter  to  his  guardian.  It 
would  hurt  the  old  man — Gordy  was  over  seventy 
now — but  that  could  not  be  helped.  He  would  not 
post  it  till  he  knew  for  certain. 

After  telhng  how  it  had  all  come  about,  he  went 
on  thus:  "I  know  that  to  many  people,  and  per- 
haps to  you,  Gordy,  it  will  seem  very  wrong,  but  it 
does  not  to  me,  and  that  is  the  simple  truth.  Every- 
body has  his  own  views  on  such  things,  I  suppose; 
and  as  I  would  not — on  my  honour,  Gordy — ever 
have  held  or  wished  to  hold,  or  ever  will  hold  in 
marriage  or  out  of  marriage,  any  woman  who  does 
not  love  me,  so  I  do  not  think  it  is  acting  as  I  would 
resent  others  acting  towards  me,  to  take  away  from 
such  unhappiness  this  lady  for  whom  I  would  die  at 
any  minute.  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  pity  has 
anything  to  do  with  it — I  thought  so  at  first,  but 
I  know  now  that  it  is  all  swallowed  up  in  the  most 
mighty  feeling  I  have  ever  had  or  ever  shall  have. 
I  am  not  a  bit  afraid  of  conscience.     If  God  is  Uni- 


SUMMER  209 

versal  Truth,  He  cannot  look  hardly  upon  us  for 
being  true  to  ourselves.  And  as  to  people,  we  shall 
just  hold  up  our  heads;  I  think  that  they  generally 
take  you  at  your  own  valuation.  But,  any^vay, 
Society  does  not  much  matter.  We  shan't  want 
those  who  don't  want  us — you  may  be  sure.  I 
hope  he  will  divorce  her  quickly — there  is  nobody 
much  to  be  hurt  by  that  except  you  and  Cis;  but 
if  he  doesn't — it  can't  be  helped.  I  don't  think  she 
has  anything;  but  with  my  six  hundred,  and  what 
I  can  make,  even  if  we  have  to  live  abroad,  we 
shall  be  all  right  for  money.  You  have  been  aw- 
fully good  to  me  always,  Gordy,  and  I  am  very 
grieved  to  hurt  you,  and  still  more  sorry  if  you 
think  I  am  being  ungrateful;  but  when  one  feels 
as  I  do — body  and  soul  and  spirit — there  isn't  any 
question;  there  wouldn't  be  if  death  itself  stood  in 
the  way.  If  you  receive  this,  we  shall  be  gone  to- 
gether; I  will  write  to  you  from  wherever  we  pitch 
our  tent,  and,  of  course,  I  shall  write  to  Cicely. 
But  will  you  please  tell  Mrs.  Doone  and  Sylvia, 
and  give  them  my  love  if  they  still  care  to  have  it. 
Good-bye,  dear  Gordy.  I  believe  you  would  have 
done  the  same,  if  you  had  been  I.  Always  your 
affectionate — Mark.  ' ' 

In  all  those  preparations  he  forgot  nothing,  em- 
ploying every  minute  of  the  few  hours  in  a  sort  of 
methodic  exaltation.  The  last  thing  before  setting 
out  he  took  the  damp  cloths  off  his  'bull-man.' 
Into  the  face  of  the  monster  there  had  come  of  late 
a  hungry,  yearning  look.     The  artist  in  him  had 


2IO  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

done  his  work  that  unconscious  justice;  against  his 
will  had  set  down  the  truth.  And,  wondering 
whether  he  would  ever  work  at  it  again,  he  re- 
damped  the  cloths  and  wrapped  it  carefully. 

He  did  not  go  to  her  village,  but  to  one  five  or  six 
miles  down  the  river — it  was  safer,  and  the  row 
would  steady  him.  Hiring  a  skiff,  he  pulled  up 
stream.  He  travelled  very  slowly  to  kill  time, 
keeping  under  the  far  bank.  And  as  he  pulled,  his 
very  heart  seemed  parched  with  nervousness.  Was 
it  real  that  he  was  going  to  her,  or  only  some  fan- 
tastic trick  of  Fate,  a  dream  from  which  he  would 
wake  to  find  himself  alone  again?  He  passed  the 
dove-cot  at  last,  and  kept  on  till  he  could  round 
into  the  backwater  and  steal  up  under  cover  to  the 
poplar.  He  arrived  a  few  minutes  before  eight 
o'clock,  turned  the  boat  round,  and  waited  close 
beneath  the  bank,  holding  to  a  branch,  and  stand- 
ing so  that  he  could  see  the  path.  If  a  man  could 
die  from  longing  and  anxiety,  surely  Lennan  must 
have  died  then! 

All  wind  had  failed,  and  the  day  was  fallen  into 
a  wonderful  still  evening.  Gnats  were  dancing  in 
the  sparse  strips  of  sunhght  that  slanted  across  the 
dark  water,  now  that  the  sun  was  low.  From  the 
fields,  bereft  of  workers,  came  the  scent  of  hay  and 
the  heavy  scent  of  meadow-sweet;  the  musky  odour 
of  the  backwater  was  confused  with  them  into  one 
brooding  perfume.  No  one  passed.  And  sounds 
were  few  and  far  to  that  wistful  listener,  for  birds 
did  not  sing  just  there.     How  still  and  warm  was 


SUMMER  211 

the  air,  yet  seemed  to  vibrate  against  his  cheeks  as 
though  about  to  break  into  flame.  That  fancy  came 
to  him  vividly  while  he  stood  waiting — a  vision  of 
heat  simmering  in  little  pale  red  flames.  On  the  thick 
reeds  some  large,  slow,  dusky  flies  were  still  feed- 
ing, and  now  and  then  a  moorhen  a  few  yards  away 
splashed  a  little,  or  uttered  a  sharp,  shrill  note. 
When  she  came — if  she  did  come! — they  would  not 
stay  here,  in  this  dark  earthy  backwater;  he  would 
take  her  over  to  the  other  side,  away  to  the  woods! 
But  the  minutes  passed,  and  his  heart  sank.  Then 
it  leaped  up.  Someone  was  coming — in  white,  with 
bare  head,  and  something  blue  or  black  flung  across 
her  arm.  It  was  she!  No  one  else  walked  like 
that !  She  came  very  quickly.  And  he  noticed  that 
her  hair  looked  like  little  wings  on  either  side  of  her 
brow,  as  if  her  face  were  a  white  bird  with  dark 
wings,  flying  to  love!  Now  she  was  close,  so  close 
that  he  could  see  her  lips  parted,  and  her  eyes  love- 
lighted — like  nothing  in  the  world  but  darkness  wild 
with  dew  and  starlight.  He  reached  up  and  lifted 
her  down  into  the  boat,  and  the  scent  of  some 
flower  pressed  against  his  face  seemed  to  pierce 
into  him  and  reach  his  very  heart,  awakening  the 
memory  of  something  past,  forgotten.  Then,  seiz- 
ing the  branches,  snapping  them  in  his  haste,  he 
dragged  the  skiff  along  through  the  sluggish  water, 
the  gnats  dancing  in  his  face.  She  seemed  to  know 
where  he  was  taking  her,  and  neither  of  them  spoke 
a  single  word,  while  he  pulled  out  into  the  open, 
and  over  to  the  far  bank. 


212  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

There  was  but  one  field  between  them  and  the 
wood — a  field  of  young  wheat,  with  a  hedge  of  thorn 
and  alder.  And  close  to  that  hedge  they  set  out, 
their  hands  clasped.  They  had  nothing  to  say  yet 
— like  children  saving  up.  She  had  put  on  her  cloak 
to  hide  her  dress,  and  its  silk  swished  against  the 
silvery  blades  of  the  wheat.  What  had  moved  her 
to  put  on  this  blue  cloak?  Blue  of  the  sky,  and 
flowers,  of  birds'  wings,  and  the  black-burning  blue 
of  the  night!  The  hue  of  all  holy  things !  And  how 
still  it  was  in  the  late  gleam  of  the  sun!  Not  one 
httle  sound  of  beast  or  bird  or  tree;  not  one  bee 
humming!  And  not  much  colour — only  the  starry 
white  hemlocks  and  globe-campion  flowers,  and  the 
low-flying  glamour  of  the  last  warm  light  on  the 
wheat. 

XX 

.  .  .  Now  over  wood  and  river  the  evening  drew 
in  fast.  And  first  the  swallows,  that  had  looked  as 
if  they  would  never  stay  their  hunting,  ceased;  and 
the  light,  that  had  seemed  fastened  above  the  world, 
for  aU  its  last  brightenings,  slowly  fell  wingless  and 
dusky. 

The  moon  would  not  rise  tiU  ten!  And  all  things 
waited.  The  creatures  of  night  were  slow  to  come 
forth  after  that  long  bright  summer's  day,  watch- 
ing for  the  shades  of  the  trees  to  sink  deeper  and 
deeper  into  the  now  chalk- white  water;  watching 
for  the  chalk-white  face  of  the  sky  to  be  masked 


SUMMER  213 

with  velvet.  The  very  black-plumed  trees  them- 
selves seemed  to  wait  in  suspense  for  the  grape- 
bloom  of  night.  All  things  stared,  wan  in  that 
hour  of  passing  day — all  things  had  eyes  wistful 
and  unblessed.  In  those  moments  glamour  was  so 
dead  that  it  was  as  if  meaning  had  abandoned  the 
earth.  But  not  for  long.  Winged  with  darkness, 
it  stole  back;  not  the  soul  of  meaning  that  had 
gone,  but  a  witch-like  and  brooding  spirit  harbour- 
ing in  the  black  trees,  in  the  high  dark  spears  of  the 
rushes,  and  on  the  grim-snouted  snags  that  lurked 
along  the  river  bank.  Then  the  owls  came  out,  and 
night-flying  things.  And  in  the  wood  there  began 
a  cruel  bird-tragedy — some  dark  pursuit  in  the  twi- 
light above  the  bracken;  the  piercing  shrieks  of  a 
creature  into  whom  talons  have  again  and  again 
gone  home;  and  mingled  with  them,  hoarse  raging 
cries  of  triumph.  Many  minutes  they  lasted,  those 
noises  of  the  night,  sound-emblems  of  all  the  cruelty 
in  the  heart  of  Nature;  till  at  last  death  appeased 
that  savagery.  And  any  soul  abroad,  that  pitied 
fugitives,  might  once  more  listen,  and  not  weep  .  .  . 
Then  a  nightingale  began  to  give  forth  its  long 
liquid  gurgling;  and  a  corn-crake  churred  in  the 
young  wheat.  Again  the  night  brooded,  in  the  silent 
tops  of  the  trees,  in  the  more  silent  depths  of  the 
water.  It  sent  out  at  long  intervals  a  sigh  or  mur- 
mur, a  tiny  scuttling  splash,  an  owl's  hunting  cry. 
And  its  breath  was  still  hot  and  charged  with  heavy 
odour,  for  no  dew  was  falling.  .  .  . 


214  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

XXI 

It  was  past  ten  when  they  came  out  from  the 
wood.  She  had  wanted  to  wait  for  the  moon  to 
rise;  not  a  gold  coin  of  a  moon  as  last  night,  but 
ivory  pale,  and  with  a  gleaming  radiance  level  over 
the  fern,  and  covering  the  lower  boughs,  as  it  were, 
with  a  drift  of  white  blossom. 

Through  the  wicket  gate  they  passed  once  more 
beside  the  moon-coloured  wheat,  which  seemed  of  a 
different  world  from  that  world  in  which  they  had 
walked  but  an  hour  and  a  half  ago. 

And  in  Lennan's  heart  was  a  feehng  such  as  a 
man's  heart  can  only  know  once  in  all  his  life — such 
humble  gratitude,  and  praise,  and  adoration  of  her 
who  had  given  him  her  all.  There  should  be  nothing 
for  her  now  but  joy — like  the  joy  of  this  last  hour. 
She  should  never  know  less  happiness!  And  kneel- 
ing down  before  her  at  the  water's  edge  he  kissed 
her  dress,  and  hands,  and  feet,  which  to-morrow 
would  be  his  forever. 

Then  they  got  into  the  boat. 

The  smile  of  the  moonlight  glided  over  each  rip- 
ple, and  reed,  and  closing  water-lily;  over  her  face, 
where  the  hood  had  fallen  back  from  her  loosened 
hair;  over  one  hand  traihng  the  water,  and  the  other 
touching  the  flower  at  her  breast;  and,  just  above 
her  breath,  she  said: 

"Row,  my  dear  love;   it's  late!" 

Dipping  his  sculls,  he  shot  the  skiff  into  the  dark- 
ness of  the  backwater.  .  .  . 


SUMMER  215 

What  happened  then  he  never  knew,  never  clearly 
— in  all  those  after  years.  A  vision  of  her  white 
form  risen  to  its  feet,  bending  forward  like  a  crea- 
ture caught,  that  cannot  tell  which  way  to  spring; 
a  crashing  shock,  his  head  striking  something  hard! 
Nothingness!  And  then — an  awful,  awful  struggle 
with  roots  and  weeds  and  slime,  a  desperate  agony 
of  groping  in  that  pitchy  blackness,  among  tree- 
stumps,  in  dead  water  that  seemed  to  have  no  bot- 
tom— he  and  that  other,  who  had  leaped  at  them 
in  the  dark  with  his  boat,  like  a  murdering  beast; 
a  nightmare  search  more  horrible  than  words  could 
tell,  till  in  a  patch  of  moonlight  on  the  bank  they 
laid  her,  who  for  all  their  efforts  never  stirred.  .  .  . 
There  she  lay  all  white,  and  they  two  crouched  at 
her  head  and  feet — like  dark  creatures  of  the  woods 
and  waters  over  that  which  with  their  hunting  they 
had  slain. 

How  long  they  stayed  there,  not  once  looking  at 
each  other,  not  once  speaking,  not  once  ceasing  to 
touch  with  their  hands  that  dead  thing — he  never 
knew.  How  long  in  the  summer  night,  with  its 
moonlight  and  its  shadows  quivering  round  them, 
and  the  night  wind  talking  in  the  reeds! 

And  then  the  most  enduring  of  all  sentient  things 
had  moved  in  him  again;  so  that  he  once  more  felt. 
.  .  .  Never  again  to  see  those  eyes  that  had  loved 
him  with  their  light!  Never  again  to  kiss  her  lips! 
Frozen — like  moonlight  to  the  earth,  with  the 
flower  still  clinging  at  her  breast.  Thrown  out  on 
the  bank  like  a  plucked  water-lily!    Dead?    No, 


2i6  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

no!  Not  dead!  Alive  in  the  night — alive  to  him 
— somewhere!  Not  on  this  dim  bank,  in  this  hide- 
ous backwater,  with  that  dark  dumb  creature  who 
had  destroyed  her!  Out  there  on  the  river — in  the 
wood  of  their  happiness — somewhere  alive!  .  .  . 
And,  staggering  up  past  Cramier,  who  never  moved, 
he  got  into  his  boat,  and  like  one  demented  pulled 
out  into  the  stream. 

But  once  there  in  the  tide,  he  fell  huddled  for- 
ward, motionless  above  his  oars.  .  .  . 

And  the  moonlight  flooded  his  dark  skiff  drifting 
down.  And  the  moonlight  effaced  the  ripples  on 
the  water  that  had  stolen  away  her  spirit.  Her 
spirit  mingled  now  with  the  white  beauty  and  the 
shadows,  for  ever  part  of  the  stillness  and  the  pas- 
sion of  a  summer  night;  hovering,  floating,  listen- 
ing to  the  rustle  of  the  reeds,  and  the  whispering 
of  the  woods;  one  with  the  endless  dream — that 
spirit  passing  out,  as  all  might  wish  to  pass,  in  the 
hour  of  happiness. 


PART  III 
AUTUMN 


When  on  that  November  night  Lennan  stole  to  the 
open  door  of  his  dressing-room,  and  stood  watching 
his  wife  asleep,  Fate  still  waited  for  an  answer. 

A  low  fire  was  burning — one  of  those  fires  that 
throw  faint  shadows  everywhere,  and  once  and  again 
glow  so  that  some  object  shines  for  a  moment,  some 
shape  is  clearly  seen.  The  curtains  were  not  quite 
drawn,  and  a  plane-tree  branch  with  leaves  still 
hanging,  which  had  kept  them  company  all  the  fif- 
teen years  they  had  lived  there,  was  moving  darkly 
in  the  wind,  now  touching  the  glass  with  a  frail  tap, 
as  though  asking  of  him,  who  had  been  roaming  in 
that  wind  so  many  hours,  to  let  it  in.  Unfailing 
comrades — London  plane-trees! 

He  had  not  dared  hope  that  Sylvia  would  be 
asleep.  It  was  merciful  that  she  was,  whichever 
way  the  issue  went — that  issue  so  cruel.  Her  face 
was  turned  towards  the  fire,  and  one  hand  rested 
beneath  her  cheek.  So  she  often  slept.  Even  when 
life  seemed  all  at  sea,  its  landmarks  lost,  one  still 
did  what  was  customary.  Poor  tender-hearted 
thing — she  had  not  slept  since  he  told  her,  forty- 
eight  hours,  that  seemed  such  years,  ago!  With  her 
flaxen  hair,  and  her  touching  candour,  even  in  sleep, 
she  looked  like  a  girl  lying  there,  not  so  greatly 

219 


220  THE   DARK  FLOWER 

changed  from  what  she  had  been  that  summer  of 
Cicely's  marriage  down  at  Hayle.  Her  face  had 
not  grown  old  in  all  those  twenty-eight  years. 
There  had  been  till  now  no  special  reason  why  it 
should.  Thought,  strong  feeling,  suffering,  those 
were  what  changed  faces;  Sylvia  had  never  thought 
very  deeply,  never  suffered  much,  till  now.  And  was 
it  for  him,  who  had  been  careful  of  her — very  care- 
ful on  the  whole,  despite  man's  selfishness,  despite 
her  never  having  understood  the  depths  of  him — 
was  it  for  him  of  all  people  to  hurt  her  so,  to  stamp 
her  face  with  sorrow,  perhaps  destroy  her  utterly? 
He  crept  a  little  farther  in  and  sat  down  in  the 
arm-chair  beyond  the  fire.  What  memories  a  fire 
gathered  into  it,  with  its  flaky  ashes,  its  little  leaf- 
like flames,  and  that  quiet  glow  and  flicker!  What 
tale  of  passions!  How  like  to  a  fire  was  a  man's 
heart!  The  first  young  fitful  leapings,  the  sudden, 
fierce,  mastering  heat,  the  long,  steady  sober  burn- 
ing, and  then — that  last  flaming-up,  that  clutch 
back  at  its  own  vanished  youth,  the  final  eager 
flight  of  flame,  before  the  ashes  wintered  it  to  noth- 
ing! Visions  and  memories  he  saw  down  in  the 
fire,  as  only  can  be  seen  when  a  man's  heart,  by 
the  agony  of  long  struggle,  has  been  stripped  of 
skin,  and  quivers  at  every  touch.  Love!  A  strange 
haphazard  thing  was  love — so  spun  between  ec- 
stacy  and  torture!  A  thing  insidious,  irresponsible, 
desperate.  A  flying  sweetness,  more  poignant  than 
anything  on  earth,  more  dark  in  origin  and  destiny. 
A  thing  without  reason  or  coherence.     A  man's  love- 


AUTUMN  221 

life — what  say  had  he  in  the  ebb  and  flow  of  it? 
No  more  than  in  the  flights  of  autumn  birds,  swoop- 
ing down,  aUghting  here  and  there,  passing  on. 
The  loves  one  left  behind — even  in  a  life  by  no 
means  vagabond  in  love,  as  men's  lives  went!  The 
love  that  thought  the  Tyrol  skies  would  fall  if  he 
were  not  first  with  a  certain  lady.  The  love  whose 
star  had  caught  in  the  hair  of  Sylvia,  now  lying 
there  asleep.  A  so-called  love — that  half-glamorous, 
yet  sordid  little  meal  of  pleasure,  which  youth, 
however  sensitive,  must  eat,  it  seems,  some  time 
or  other  with  some  young  light  of  love — a  glimpse 
of  life  that  beforehand  had  seemed  much  and  had 
meant  Httle,  save  to  leave  him  disillusioned  with 
himself  and  sorry  for  his  partner.  And  then  the 
love  that  he  could  not,  even  after  twenty  years, 
bear  to  remember;  that  all-devouring  summer  pas- 
sion, which  in  one  night  had  gained  all  and  lost  all 
terribly,  leaving  on  his  soul  a  scar  that  could  never 
be  quite  healed,  leaving  his  spirit  always  a  Httle 
lonely,  haunted  by  the  sense  of  what  might  have 
been.  Of  his  share  in  that  night  of  tragedy— that 
'terrible  accident  on  the  river' — no  one  had  ever 
dreamed.  And  then  the  long  despair  which  had 
seemed  the  last  death  of  love  had  slowly  passed,  and 
yet  another  love  had  been  born — or  rather  born  again, 
pale,  sober,  but  quite  real;  the  fresh  springing-up 
of  a  feeling  long  forgotten,  of  that  protective  devo- 
tion of  his  boyhood.  He  still  remembered  the  ex- 
pression on  Sylvia's  face  when  he  passed  her  by 
chance  in  Oxford  Street,  soon  after  he  came  back 


222  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

from  his  four  years  of  exile  in  the  East  and  Rome 
— that  look,  eager,  yet  reproachful,  then  stoically 
ironic,  as  if  saying:  'Oh,  no!  after  forgetting  me 
four  years  and  more — you  can't  remember  me  now!' 
And  when  he  spoke,  the  still  more  touching  pleasure 
in  her  face.  Then  uncertain  months,  with  a  feeling 
of  what  the  end  would  be;  and  then  their  marriage. 
Happy  enough — gentle,  not  very  vivid,  nor  spiritu- 
ally very  intimate — his  work  always  secretly  as  re- 
mote from  her  as  when  she  had  thought  to  please 
him  by  putting  jessamine  stars  on  the  heads  of  his 
beasts.  A  quiet  successful  union,  not  meaning,  he 
had  thought,  so  very  much  to  him  nor  so  very  much 
to  her — until  forty-eight  hours  ago  he  told  her;  and 
she  had  shrunk,  and  wilted,  and  gone  all  to  pieces. 
And  what  was  it  he  had  told  her? 

A  long  story — that! 

Sitting  there  by  the  fire,  with  nothing  yet  de- 
cided, he  could  see  it  all  from  the  start,  with  its 
devilish,  delicate  intricacy,  its  subtle  slow  enchant- 
ment spinning  itself  out  of  him,  out  of  his  own 
state  of  mind  and  body,  rather  than  out  of  the  spell 
cast  over  him,  as  though  a  sort  of  fatal  force,  long 
dormant,  were  working  up  again  to  burst  into  dark 
flower.  .  .  . 


II 

Yes,  it  had  begun  within  him  over  a  year  ago, 
with  a  queer  unhappy  restlessness,  a  feeling  that  life 
was  slipping,  ebbing  away  within  reach  of  him,  and 


AUTUMN  223 

his  arms  never  stretched  out  to  arrest  it.  It  had 
begun  with  a  sort  of  long  craving,  stilled  only  when 
he  was  working  hard — a  craving  for  he  knew  not 
what,  an  ache  which  was  worst  whenever  the  wind 
was  soft. 

They  said  that  about  forty-five  was  a  perilous 
age  for  a  man — especially  for  an  artist.  All  the 
autumn  of  last  year  he  had  felt  this  vague  misery 
rather  badly.  It  had  left  him  alone  most  of  De- 
cember and  January,  while  he  was  working  so  hard  at 
his  group  of  lions;  but  the  moment  that  was  finished 
it  had  gripped  him  hard  again.  In  those  last  days 
of  January  he  well  remembered  wandering  about  in 
the  parks  day  after  day,  trying  to  get  away  from 
it.  Mild  weather,  with  a  scent  in  the  wind!  With 
what  avidity  he  had  watched  children  playing,  the 
premature  buds  on  the  bushes,  anything,  everything 
young — with  what  an  ache,  too,  he  had  been  con- 
scious of  innumerable  lives  being  lived  round  him, 
and  loves  loved,  and  he  outside,  unable  to  know, 
to  grasp,  to  gather  them;  and  all  the  time  the  sands 
of  his  hourglass  running  out!  A  most  absurd  and 
unreasonable  feeling  for  a  man  with  ever^'thing  he 
wanted,  with  work  that  he  loved,  quite  enough 
money,  and  a  wife  so  good  as  Sylvia — a  feeling  that 
no  Enghshman  of  forty-six,  in  excellent  health,  ought 
for  a  moment  to  have  been  troubled  with.  A  feel- 
ing such  as,  indeed,  no  Enghshman  ever  admitted 
having — so  that  there  was  not  even,  as  yet,  a  So- 
ciety for  its  suppression.  For  what  was  this  dis- 
quiet feehng,  but  the  sense  that  he  had  had  his 


224  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

day,  would  never  again  know  the  stir  and  fearful 
joy  of  falling  in  love,  but  only  just  hanker  after 
what  was  past  and  gone!  Could  anything  be  more 
reprehensible  in  a  married  man? 

It  was — yes— the  last  day  of  January,  when,  re- 
turning from  one  of  those  restless  rambles  in  Hyde 
Park,  he  met  Dromore.  Queer  to  recognize  a  man 
hardly  seen  since  school-days.  Yet  unmistakably, 
Johnny  Dromore,  sauntering  along  the  rails  of  Pic- 
cadilly on  the  Green  Park  side,  with  that  slightly 
rolling  gait  of  his  thin,  horseman's  legs,  his  dandi- 
fied hat  a  little  to  one  side,  those  strange,  chaffing, 
goggling  eyes,  that  look,  as  if  making  a  perpetual 
bet.  Yes — the  very  same  teasing,  now  moody,  now 
reckless,  always  astute  Johnny  Dromore,  with  a 
good  heart  beneath  an  outside  that  seemed  ashamed 
of  it.  Truly  to  have  shared  a  room  at  school— to 
have  been  at  College  together,  were  Hnks  mysteri- 
ously indestructible. 

"Mark  Lennan!  By  gum!  haven't  seen  you  for 
ages.  Not  since  you  turned  out  a  full-blown— what 
d'you  call  it?    Awfully  glad  to  meet  you,  old  chap ! " 

Here  was  the  past  indeed,  long  vanished  in  feel- 
ing and  thought  and  all;  and  Lennan's  head  buzzed, 
trying  to  find  some  common  interest  with  this  hunt- 
ing, racing  man-about-town. 

Johnny  Dromore  come  to  life  again — he  whom 
the  Machine  had  stamped  with  astute  simphcity 
by  the  time  he  was  twenty-two,  and  for  ever  after 
left  untouched  in  thought  and  feeling— Johnny 
Dromore,  who  would  never  pass  beyond  the  philos- 


AUTUMN  225 

ophy  that  all  was  queer  and  freakish  which  had  not 
to  do  with  horses,  women,  wine,  cigars,  jokes,  good- 
heartedness,  and  that  perpetual  bet;  Johnny  Dro- 
more,  who,  somewhere  in  him,  had  a  pocket  of  depth, 
a  streak  of  hunger,  that  was  not  just  Johnny  Dro- 
more. 

How  queer  was  the  sound  of  that  jerky  talk! 

"You  ever  see  old  Fookes  now?  Been  racin'  at 
all?  You  live  in  Town?  Remember  good  old 
Blenker?"  And  then  silence,  and  then  another 
spurt:  "Ever  go  down  to  'Bambury's?'  Ever  go 
racin'?  .  .  .  Come  on  up  to  my  'digs.'  You've 
got  nothin'  to  do."  No  persuading  Johnny  Dro- 
more  that  a  'what  d'you  call  it'  could  have  any- 
thing to  do.  "Come  on,  old  chap.  I've  got  the 
hump.     It's  this  damned  east  wind." 

Well  he  remembered  it,  when  they  shared  a  room 
at  'Bambury's' — that  hump  of  Johnny  Dromore's, 
after  some  reckless  spree  or  bout  of  teasing. 

And  down  that  narrow  bye-street  of  Piccadilly 
he  had  gone,  and  up  into  those  'digs'  on  the  first 
floor,  with  their  little  dark  hall,  their  Van  Beers' 
drawing  and  Vanity  Fair  cartoons,  and  prints  of 
racehorses,  and  of  the  old  Nightgown  Steeplechase; 
with  the  big  chairs,  and  all  the  paraphernalia  of 
Race  Guides  and  race-glasses,  fox-masks  and  stags'- 
horns,  and  hunting-whips.  And  yet,  something  that 
from  the  first  moment  struck  him  as  not  quite  in 
keeping,  foreign  to  the  picture — a  little  jumble  of 
books,  a  vase  of  flowers,  a  grey  kitten. 

"Sit  down,  old  chap.     What'll  you  drink?" 


226  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

Sunk  into  the  recesses  of  a  marvellous  chair,  with 
huge  arms  of  tawny  leather,  he  listened  and  spoke 
drowsily.  'Bambury's,'  Oxford,  Gordy's  clubs — 
dear  old  Gordy,  gone  now! — things  long  passed  by; 
they  seemed  all  round  him  once  again.  And  yet, 
always  that  vague  sense,  threading  this  resurrec- 
tion, threading  the  smoke  of  their  cigars,  and 
Johnny  Dromore's  clipped  talk — of  something  that 
did  not  quite  belong.  Might  it  be,  perhaps,  that 
sepia  drawing — above  the  'Tantalus'  on  the  oak 
sideboard  at  the  far  end — of  a  woman's  face  gazing 
out  into  the  room?  Mysteriously  unlike  everything 
else,  except  the  flowers,  and  this  kitten  that  was 
pushing  its  furry  little  head  against  his  hand.  Odd 
how  a  single  thing  sometimes  took  possession  of  a 
room,  however  remote  in  spirit!  It  seemed  to  reach 
like  a  shadow  over  Dromore's  outstretched  limbs, 
and  weathered,  long-nosed  face,  behind  his  huge 
cigar;  over  the  queer,  solemn,  chafhng  eyes,  with 
something  brooding  in  the  depths  of  them. 

"Ever  get  the  hump?  Bally  awful,  isn't  it?  It's 
getting  old.  We're  bally  old,  you  know,  Lenny!" 
Ah!  No  one  had  called  him  'Lenny'  for  twenty 
years.  And  it  was  true;  they  were  unmentionably  old. 

"When  a  fellow  begins  to  feel  old,  you  know,  it's 
time  he  went  broke — or  something;  doesn't  bear 
sittin'  down  and  lookin'  at.  Come  out  to  'Monte' 
with  me!" 

'Monte!'  That  old  wound,  never  quite  healed, 
started  throbbing  at  the  word,  so  that  he  could 
hardly  speak  his:   "No,  I  don't  care  for  'Monte 


J  >> 


AUTUMN  227 

And,  at  once,  he  saw  Dromore's  eyes  probing, 
questioning : 

"You  married?" 

"Yes." 

"Never  thought  of  you  as  married!" 

So  Dromore  did  think  of  him.  Queer!  He  never 
thought  of  Johnny  Dromore. 

"Winter's  bally  awful,  when  you're  not  huntin'. 
You've  changed  a  lot;  should  hardly  have  known 
you.  Last  time  I  saw  you,  you'd  just  come  back 
from  Rome  or  somewhere.  What's  it  like  bein'  a — 
a  sculptor?  Saw  something  of  yours  once.  Ever  do 
things  of  horses?" 

Yes;  he  had  done  a  'relief  of  ponies  only  last 
year. 

"You  do  women,  too,  I  s'pose?" 

"Not  often." 

The  eyes  goggled  slightly.  Quaint,  that  unholy 
interest!  Just  like  boys,  the  Johnny  Dromores — 
would  never  grow  up,  no  matter  how  life  treated 
them.  If  Dromore  spoke  out  his  soul,  as  he  used  to 
speak  it  out  at  'Bambury's,'  he  would  say:  'You 
get  a  pull  there;  you  have  a  bally  good  time,  I  ex- 
pect.' That  was  the  way  it  took  them;  just  a  con- 
verse manifestation  of  the  very  same  feeling  towards 
Art  that  the  pious  Philistines  had,  with  their  de- 
ploring eyebrows  and  their  'peril  to  the  soul.' 
Babes  all!  Not  a  glimmering  of  what  Art  meant — 
of  its  effort,  and  its  yearnings! 

"You  make  money  at  it?" 

"Oh,  yes." 


228  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

Again  that  appreciative  goggle,  as  who  should 
say:    'Ho!  there's  more  in  this  than  I  thought!' 

A  long  silence,  then,  in  the  dusk  with  the  violet 
glimmer  from  outside  the  windows,  the  fire  flicker- 
ing in  front  of  them,  the  grey  kitten  purring  against 
his  neck,  the  smoke  of  their  cigars  going  up,  and 
such  a  strange,  dozing  sense  of  rest,  as  he  had  not 
known  for  many  days.  And  then — something, 
someone  at  the  door,  over  by  the  sideboard!  And 
Dromore  speaking  in  a  queer  voice: 

"Come  in,  Nell!     D'you  know  my  daughter?" 

A  hand  took  Lennan's,  a  hand  that  seemed  to 
waver  between  the  aplomb  of  a  woman  of  the  world, 
and  a  child's  impulsive  warmth.  And  a  voice, 
young,  clipped,  clear,  said: 

''How  d'you  do?  She's  rather  sweet,  isn't  she — • 
my  kitten?" 

Then  Dromore  turned  the  light  up.  A  figure 
fairly  tall,  in  a  grey  riding-habit,  stupendously  well 
cut;  a  face  not  quite  so  round  as  a  child's  nor  so 
shaped  as  a  woman's,  blushing  slightly,  very  calm; 
crinkly  Hght-brown  hair  tied  back  with  a  black 
ribbon  under  a  neat  hat;  and  eyes  like  those  eyes 
of  Gainsborough's  'Perdita' — slow,  grey,  mesmeric, 
with  long  lashes  curling  up,  eyes  that  draw  things 
to  them,  still  innocent. 

And  just  on  the  point  of  saying:  "  I  thought  you'd 
stepped  out  of  that  picture" — he  saw  Dromore's 
face,  and  mumbled  instead: 

"So  it's  your  kitten?" 

"Yes;  she  goes  to  everybody.  Do  you  like  Per- 
sians?    She's  all  fur  really.     Feel!" 


AUTUMN  229 

Entering  with  his  fingers  the  recesses  of  the  kit- 
ten, he  said: 

"Cats  without  fur  are  queer." 

"Have  you  seen  one  without  fur?" 

"Oh,  yes!  In  my  profession  we  have  to  go  below 
fur — I'm  a  sculptor." 

"That  must  be  awfully  interesting." 

What  a  woman  of  the  world!  But  what  a  child, 
too!  And  now  he  could  see  that  the  face  in  the 
sepia  drawing  was  older  altogether — lips  not  so  full, 
look  not  so  innocent,  cheeks  not  so  round,  and  some- 
thing sad  and  desperate  about  it — a  face  that  life 
had  rudely  touched.  But  the  same  eyes  it  had — 
and  what  charm,  for  all  its  disillusionment,  its  air 
of  a  history!  Then  he  noticed,  fastened  to  the 
frame,  on  a  thin  rod,  a  dust-coloured  curtain,  drawn 
to  one  side.  The  self-possessed  young  voice  was 
saying : 

"Would  you  mind  if  I  showed  you  my  drawings? 
It  would  be  awfully  good  of  }^ou.  You  could  tell 
me  about  them."  And  with  dismay  he  saw  her 
open  a  portfolio.  While  he  scrutinized  those  school- 
girl drawings,  he  could  feel  her  looking  at  him,  as 
animals  do  when  they  are  making  up  their  minds 
whether  or  no  to  like  you;  then  she  came  and  stood 
so  close  that  her  arm  pressed  his.  He  redoubled 
his  efforts  to  find  something  good  about  the  draw- 
ings. But  in  truth  there  was  nothing  good.  And 
if,  in  other  matters,  he  could  lie  well  enough  to 
save  people's  feelings,  where  Art  was  concerned  he 
never  could;    so  he  merely  said: 

"You  haven't  been  taught,  you  see." 


230  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

"Will  you  teach  me?" 

But  before  he  could  answer,  she  was  already  ef- 
facing that  naive  question  in  her  most  grown-up 
manner. 

"Of  course  I  oughtn't  to  ask.  It  would  bore  you 
awfully." 

After  that  he  vaguely  remembered  Dromore's  ask- 
ing if  he  ever  rode  in  the  Row;  and  those  eyes  of 
hers  following  him  about;  and  her  hand  giving  his 
another  childish  squeeze.  Then  he  was  on  his  way 
again  down  the  dimly-lighted  stairs,  past  an  inter- 
minable array  of  Vanity  Fair  cartoons,  out  into  the 
east  wind. 


Ill 

Crossing  the  Green  Park  on  his  way  home,  was 
he  more,  or  less,  restless?  Difficult  to  say.  A  Httle 
flattered,  certainly,  a  Httle  warmed;  yet  irritated, 
as  always  when  he  came  into  contact  with  people 
to  whom  the  world  of  Art  was  such  an  amusing 
unreality.  The  notion  of  trying  to  show  that  child 
how  to  draw — that  feather-pate,  with  her  riding  and 
her  kitten;  and  her  'Perdita'  eyes!  Quaint,  how 
she  had  at  once  made  friends  with  him!  He  was  a 
little  different,  perhaps,  from  what  she  was  accus- 
tomed to.  And  how  daintily  she  spoke !  A  strange, 
attractive,  almost  lovely  child!  Certainly  not  more 
than  seventeen — and — Johnny  Dromore's  daughter! 

The  wind  was  bitter,  the  lamps  bright  among  the 
naked  trees.     Beautiful  always — London  at  night. 


AUTUMN  231 

even  in  January,  even  in  an  east  wind,  with  a  beauty 
he  never  tired  of.  Its  great,  dark,  chiselled  shapes, 
its  gleaming  lights,  Uke  droves  of  flying  stars  come 
to  earth;  and  all  warmed  by  the  beat  and  stir  of 
innumerable  lives — those  lives  that  he  ached  so  to 
know  and  to  be  part  of. 

He  told  Sylvia  of  his  encounter.  Dromore!  The 
name  struck  her.  She  had  an  old  Irish  song,  'The 
Castle  of  Dromore,'  with  a  queer,  haunting  re- 
frain. 

It  froze  hard  all  the  week,  and  he  began  a  life- 
size  group  of  their  two  sheep-dogs.  Then  a  thaw 
set  in  with  that  first  south-west  wind,  which  brings 
each  February  a  feeling  of  Spring  such  as  is  never 
again  recaptured,  and  men's  senses,  like  sleepy  bees 
in  the  sun,  go  roving.  It  awakened  in  him  more 
violently  than  ever  the  thirst  to  be  living,  knowing, 
loving — the  craving  for  something  new.  Not  this, 
of  course,  took  him  back  to  Dromore's  rooms;  oh, 
no!  just  friendliness,  since  he  had  not  even  told  his 
old  room-mate  where  he  lived,  or  said  that  his  wife 
would  be  glad  to  make  his  acquaintance,  if  he  cared 
to  come  round.  For  Johnny  Dromore  had  assuredly 
not  seemed  too  happy,  under  all  his  hard-bitten  air. 
Yes!  it  was  but  friendly  to  go  again. 

Dromore  was  seated  in  his  long  arm-chair,  a  cigar 
between  his  lips,  a  pencil  in  his  hand,  a  Ruff's  Guide 
on  his  knee;  beside  him  was  a  large  green  book. 
There  was  a  festive  air  about  him,  very  different 
from  his  spasmodic  gloom  of  the  other  day;  and  he 
murmured  without  rising: 


232  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

"Hallo,  old  man! — glad  to  see  you.  Take  a  pew. 
Look  here!  Agapemone — which  d'you  think  I  ought 
to  put  her  to — San  Diavolo  or  Ponte  Canet? — not 
more  than  four  crosses  of  St.  Paul.  Goin'  to  get  a 
real  good  one  from  her  this  time!" 

He,  who  had  never  heard  these  sainted  names, 
answered : 

"Oh!  Ponte  Canet,  without  doubt.  But  if  you're 
working  I'll  come  in  another  time." 

"Lord!  no!  Have  a  smoke.  I'll  just  finish 
lookin'  out  their  blood — and  take  a  pull." 

And  so  Lennan  sat  down  to  watch  those  re- 
searches, wreathed  in  cigar  smoke  and  punctuated 
by  muttered  expletives.  They  were  as  sacred  and 
absorbing,  no  doubt,  as  his  own  efforts  to  create  in 
clay;  for  before  Dromore's  inner  vision  was  the  per- 
fect racehorse — ^he,  too,  was  creating.  Here  was  no 
mere  dodge  for  making  money,  but  a  process  hal- 
lowed by  the  peculiar  sensation  felt  when  one  rubbed 
the  palms  of  the  hands  together,  the  sensation  that 
accompanied  all  creative  achievement.  Once  only 
Dromore  paused  to  turn  his  head  and  say: 

"Bally  hard,  gettin'  a  taproot  right!" 

Real  Art!  How  well  an  artist  knew  that  desper- 
ate search  after  the  point  of  balance,  the  central 
rivet  that  must  be  found  before  a  form  would  come 
to  life.  .  .  .  And  he  noted  that  to-day  there  was 
no  kitten,  no  flowers,  no  sense  at  all  of  an  extrane- 
ous presence — even  the  picture  was  curtained.  Had 
the  girl  been  just  a  dream — a  fancy  conjured  up  by 
Ms  craving  after  youth? 


AUTUMN  233 

Then  he  saw  that  Dromore  had  dropped  the  large 
green  book,  and  was  standing  before  the  fire. 

"Nell  took  to  you  the  other  day.  But  you  al- 
ways were  a  lady's  man.  Remember  the  girl  at 
Coaster's?" 

Coaster's  tea-shop,  where  he  would  go  every  after- 
noon that  he  had  money,  just  for  the  pleasure  of 
looking  shyly  at  a  face.  Something  beautiful  to 
look  at — nothing  more!  Johnny  Dromore  would  no 
better  understand  that  now  than  when  they  were 
at  'Bambury's.'  Not  the  smallest  good  even  try- 
ing to  explain!  He  looked  up  at  the  goggUng  eyes; 
he  heard  the  bantering  voice: 

"I  say — you  are  goin'  grey.  We're  bally  old, 
Lenny!    A  fellow  gets  old  when  he  marries." 

And  he  answered: 

"By  the  way,  I  never  knew  that  you  had  been." 

From  Dromore's  face  the  chaffing  look  went,  Hke 
a  candle-flame  blown  out;  and  a  coppery  flush  spread 
over  it.  For  some  seconds  he  did  not  speak,  then, 
jerking  his  head  towards  the  picture,  he  muttered 
grufily : 

"Never  had  the  chance  of  marrying,  there;  NeU's 
'outside.'" 

A  sort  of  anger  leaped  in  Lerman;  why  should 
Dromore  speak  that  word  as  if  he  were  ashamed  of 
his  own  daughter?  Just  like  his  sort — none  so  hide- 
bound as  men-about-town!  Flotsam  on  the  tide  of 
other  men's  opinions;  poor  devils  adrift,  without 
the  one  true  anchorage  of  their  own  real  feelings! 
And  doubtful  whether  Dromore  would  be  pleased, 


234  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

or  think  him  gushing,  or  even  distrustful  of  his  mo- 
rahty,  he  said: 

"As  for  that,  it  would  only  make  any  decent  man 
or  woman  nicer  to  her.  When  is  she  going  to  let 
me  teach  her  drawing?" 

Dromore  crossed  the  room,  drew  back  the  curtain 
of  the  picture,  and  in  a  muffled  voice,  said: 

"My  God,  Lenny!  Life's  unfair.  Nell's  coming 
killed  her  mother.  I'd  rather  it  had  been  me — bar 
chaff!    Women  have  no  luck." 

Lennan  got  up  from  his  comfortable  chair.  For, 
startled  out  of  the  past,  the  memory  of  that  sum- 
mer night,  when  yet  another  woman  had  no  luck, 
was  flooding  his  heart  with  its  black,  inextinguish- 
able grief.     He  said  quietly: 

"The  past  is  past,  old  man." 

Dromore  drew  the  curtain  again  across  the  pic- 
ture, and  came  back  to  the  fire.  And  for  a  full 
minute  he  stared  into  it. 

"What  am  I  to  do  with  Neil?     She's  growing  up." 

"What  have  you  done  with  her  so  far?" 

"She's  been  at  school.  In  the  summer  she  goes 
to  Ireland — I've  got  a  bit  of  an  old  place  there. 
She'll  be  eighteen  in  July.  I  shall  have  to  introduce 
her  to  women,  and  all  that.  It's  the  devil!  How? 
Who?" 

Lennan  could  only  murmur:   "My  wife,  for  one." 

He  took  his  leave  soon  after.  Johrmy  Dromore! 
Bizarre  guardian  for  that  child!  Queer  life  she 
must  have  of  it,  in  that  bachelor's  den,  surrounded 
by  Ruff's   Guides!    What  would  become  of  her? 


AUTUMN  235 

Caught  up  by  some  young  spark  about  town;  mar- 
ried to  him,  no  doubt — her  father  would  see  to  the 
thoroughness  of  that,  his  standard  of  respectabihty 
was  evidently  high!  And  after — go  the  way,  maybe, 
of  her  mother — that  poor  thing  in  the  picture  with 
the  alluring,  desperate  face.  Well !  It  was  no  busi- 
ness of  his! 

IV 

No  business  of  his!  The  merest  sense  of  com- 
radeship, then,  took  him  once  more  to  Dromore's 
after  that  disclosure,  to  prove  that  the  word  'out- 
side' had  no  significance  save  in  his  friend's  own 
fancy;  to  assure  him  again  that  Sylvia  would  be 
very  glad  to  welcome  the  child  at  any  time  she  liked 
to  come. 

When  he  had  told  her  of  that  Httle  matter  of 
Nell's  birth,  she  had  been  silent  a  long  minute,  look- 
ing in  his  face,  and  then  had  said:  "Poor  child! 
I  wonder  if  she  knows!  People  are  so  unkind,  even 
nowadays!"  He  could  not  himself  think  of  anyone 
w^ho  would  pay  attention  to  such  a  thing,  except  to 
be  kinder  to  the  girl;  but  in  such  matters  Sylvia 
was  the  better  judge,  in  closer  touch  with  general 
thought.  She  met  people  that  he  did  not — and  of  a 
more  normal  species. 

It  was  rather  late  when  he  got  to  Dromore's  dig- 
gings on  that  third  visit. 

"Mr.  Dromore,  sir,"  the  man  said — he  had  one 
of  those  strictly  confidential  faces  bestowed  by  an 


236  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

all-wise  Providence  on  servants  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Piccadilly — "Mr.  Dromore,  sir,  is  not  in. 
But  he  will  be  almost  sure  to  be  in  to  dress.  Miss 
Nell  is  in,  sir." 

And  there  she  was,  sitting  at  the  table,  pasting 
photographs  into  an  album — lonely  young  creature 
in  that  abode  of  male  middle-age!  Lennan  stood, 
imheard,  gazing  at  the  back  of  her  head,  with  its 
thick  crinkly-brown  hair  tied  back  on  her  dark-red 
frock.     And,  to  the  confidential  man's  soft: 

"Mr.  Lennan,  miss,"  he  added  a  softer:  "May  I 
come  in?" 

She  put  her  hand  into  his  with  intense  composure. 

"Oh,  yes,  do!  if  you  don't  mind  the  mess  I'm 
making";  and,  with  a  httle  squeeze  of  the  tips  of 
his  fingers,  added:  "Would  it  bore  you  to  see  my 
photographs?" 

And  down  they  sat  together  before  the  photo- 
graphs— snapshots  of  people  with  guns  or  fishing- 
rods,  Httle  groups  of  schoolgirls,  kittens,  Dromore 
and  herself  on  horseback,  and  several  of  a  young 
man  with  a  broad,  daring,  rather  good-looking  face. 
"That's  Oliver — Oliver  Dromore — Dad's  first  cousin 
once  removed.  Rather  nice,  isn't  he?  Do  you  like 
his  expression?" 

Lennan  did  not  know.  Not  her  second  cousin; 
her  father's  first  cousin  once  removed!  And  again 
there  leaped  in  him  that  unreasoning  flame  of  in- 
dignant pity. 

"And  how  about  drawing?  You  haven't  come  to 
be  taught  yet." 


AUTUMN  237 

She  went  almost  as  red  as  her  frock. 

"  I  thought  you  were  only  being  polite.  I  oughtn't 
to  have  asked.  Of  course,  I  want  to  awfully — only 
I  know  it'll  bore  you." 

"It  won't  at  all." 

She  looked  up  at  that.  What  pecuUar  languorous 
eyes  they  were! 

"Shall  I  come  to-morrow,  then?" 

"Any  day  you  hke,  between  half -past  twelve  and 
one." 

"Where?" 

He  took  out  a  card. 

"Mark  Lennan — yes — I  Hke  your  name.  I  liked 
it  the  other  day.     It's  awfully  nice!" 

What  was  in  a  name  that  she  should  like  him  be- 
cause of  it?  His  fame  as  a  sculptor — such  as  it  was 
— could  have  nothing  to  do  with  that,  for  she  would 
certainly  not  know  of  it.  Ah!  but  there  was  a  lot 
in  a  name — for  children.  In  his  childhood  what 
fascination  there  had  been  in  the  words  macaroon, 
and  Spaniard,  and  Carinola,  and  Aldebaran,  and  Mr. 
McCrae.  For  quite  a  week  the  whole  world  had  been 
Mr.  McCrae — a  most  ordinary  friend  of  Gordy's. 

By  whatever  fascination  moved,  she  talked  freely 
enough  now — of  her  school;  of  riding  and  motoring 
— she  seemed  to  love  going  very  fast;  about  New- 
market— which  was  'perfect';  and  theatres — plays 
of  the  type  that  Johnny  Dromore  might  be  ex- 
pected to  approve;  these  together  with  'Hamlet' 
and  'King  Lear'  were  all  she  had  seen.  Never  was 
a  girl  so  untouched  by  thought,  or  Art — yet  not 


238  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

Stupid,  having,  seemingly,  a  certain  natural  good 
taste;  only,  nothing,  evidently,  had  come  her  way. 
How  could  it — 'Johnny  Dromore  duce,  et  auspice 
Johimy  Dromore!'  She  had  been  taken,  indeed,  to 
the  National  Gallery  while  at  school.  And  Lennan 
had  a  vision  of  eight  or  ten  young  maidens  trailing 
round  at  the  skirts  of  one  old  maiden,  admiring 
Landseer's  dogs,  giggling  faintly  at  Botticelh's  an- 
gels, gaping,  rustling,  chattering  like  young  birds 
in  a  shrubbery. 

But  with  all  her  surroundings,  this  child  of  Johnny 
Dromoredom  was  as  yet  more  innocent  than  cultured 
girls  of  the  same  age.  If  those  grey,  mesmeric  eyes 
of  hers  followed  him  about,  they  did  so  frankly,  un- 
consciously.    There  was  no  minx  in  her,  so  far. 

An  hour  went  by,  and  Dromore  did  not  come. 
And  the  loneliness  of  this  young  creature  in  her  in- 
congruous abode  began  telling  on  Lennan's  equa- 
nimity. 

What  did  she  do  in  the  evenings? 

"Sometimes  I  go  to  the  theatre  with  Dad,  gener- 
ally I' stay  at  home." 

''And  then?" 

"Oh!    I  just  read,  or  talk  French." 

"What?    To  yourself?" 

"Yes,  or  to  Oliver  sometimes,  when  he  comes 
in." 

So  Oliver  came  in! 

"How  long  have  you  known  Oliver?" 

"Oh!  ever  since  I  was  a  child." 

He  wanted  to  say:   And  how  long  is  that?    But 


AUTUMN  239 

managed  to  refrain,  and  got  up  to  go  instead.  She 
caught  his  sleeve  and  said: 

"You're  not  to  go!"  Saying  that  she  looked  as  a 
dog  will,  going  to  bite  in  fun,  her  upper  lip  shortened 
above  her  small  white  teeth  set  fast  on  her  lower  lip, 
and  her  chin  thrust  a  little  forward.  A  glimpse  of 
a  wilful  spirit!  But  as  soon  as  he  had  smiled,  and 
murmured : 

"Ah!  but  I  must,  you  see!"  she  at  once  regained 
her  manners,  only  saying  rather  mournfully:  "You 
don't  call  me  by  my  name.     Don't  you  like  it?" 

"Nell?" 

"Yes.  It's  really  Eleanor,  of  course.  Do7iH  you 
like  it?" 

If  he  had  detested  the  name,  he  could  only  have 
answered:   "Very  much." 

"I'm  awfully  glad!     Good-bye." 

When  he  got  out  into  the  street,  he  felt  terribly 
like  a  man  who,  instead  of  having  had  his  sleeve 
touched,  has  had  his  heart  plucked  at.  And  that 
warm,  bewildered  feehng  lasted  him  all  the  way 
home. 

Changing  for  dinner,  he  looked  at  himself  with  un- 
wonted attention.  Yes,  his  dark  hair  was  still  thick, 
but  going  distinctly  grey;  there  were  very  many 
lines  about  his  eyes,  too,  and  those  eyes,  still  eager 
when  they  smiled,  were  particularly  deepset,  as  if 
life  had  forced  them  back.  His  cheekbones  were 
almost  '  bopsics '  now,  and  his  cheeks  very  thin  and 
dark,  and  his  jaw  looked  too  set  and  bony  below 
the  almost  black  moustache.     Altogether  a  face  that 


240  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

life  had  worn  a  good  deal,  with  nothing  for  a  child 
to  take  a  fancy  to  and  make  friends  with,  that  he 
could  see. 

Sylvia  came  in  while  he  was  thus  taking  stock  of 
himself,  bringing  a  freshly-opened  flask  of  eau-de- 
Cologne.  She  was  always  bringing  him  something 
— never  was  anyone  so  sweet  in  those  ways.  In  that 
grey,  low-cut  frock,  her  white,  still  prettiness  and 
pale-gold  hair,  so  Httle  touched  by  Time,  only  just 
feU  short  of  real  beauty  for  lack  of  a  spice  of  depth 
and  of  incisiveness,  just  as  her  spirit  lacked  he  knew 
not  what  of  poignancy.  He  would  not  for  the  world 
have  let  her  know  that  he  ever  felt  that  lack.  If  a 
man  could  not  hide  little  rifts  in  the  lute  from  one 
so  good  and  humble  and  affectionate,  he  was  not 
fit  to  live. 

She  sang  'The  Castle  of  Dromore'  again  that  night 
with  its  queer  haunting  lilt.  And  when  she  had 
gone  up,  and  he  was  smoking  over  the  fire,  the  girl 
in  her  dark-red  frock  seemed  to  come,  and  sit  oppo- 
site with  her  eyes  fixed  on  his,  just  as  she  had  been 
sitting  while  they  talked.  Dark  red  had  suited 
her!  Suited  the  look  on  her  face  when  she  said: 
''You're  not  to  go!"  Odd,  indeed,  if  she  had  not 
some  devil  in  her,  with  that  parentage! 

V 

Next  day  they  had  summoned  him  from  the 
studio  to  see  a  peculiar  phenomenon — Johnny  Dro- 
more, very  well  groomed,    talking  to   Sylvia   with 


AUTUMN  241 

unnatural  suavity,  and  carefully  masking  the  goggle 
in  his  eyes!     Mrs.  Lennan  ride?     Ah!     Too  busy, 

of   course.    Helped   Mark   with   his — er No! 

Really!  Read  a  lot,  no  doubt?  Never  had  any 
time  for  readin'  himself — awful  bore  not  having 
time  to  read!  And  Sylvia  Hstening  and  smiling, 
very  still  and  soft. 

What  had  Dromore  come  for?  To  spy  out  the 
land,  discover  why  Lennan  and  his  wife  thought 
nothing  of  the  word  'outside' — whether,  in  fact, 
their  household  was  respectable.  ...  A  man  must 
always  look  twice  at  Svhat-d'you-call-ems,'  even  if 
they  have  shared  his  room  at  school!  ....  To  his 
credit,  of  course,  to  be  so  careful  of  his  daughter, 
at  the  expense  of  time  owTd  to  the  creation  of  the 
perfect  racehorse!  On  the  whole  he  seemed  to  be 
coming  to  the  conclusion  that  they  might  be  useful 
to  Nell  in  the  uncomfortable  time  at  hand  when  she 
would  have  to  go  about;  seemed  even  to  be  falling 
under  the  spell  of  Sylvia's  transparent  goodness- 
abandoning  his  habitual  vigilance  against  being 
scored  off  in  life's  perpetual  bet;  parting  with  his 
armour  of  chaff.  Almost  a  relief,  indeed,  once  out 
of  Sylvia's  presence,  to  see  that  familiar,  unholy 
curiosity  creeping  back  into  his  eyes,  as  though  they 
were  hoping  against  parental  hope  to  find  something 
■ — er — amusing  somewhere  about  that  mysterious 
Mecca  of  good  times — a  '  what-d'you-call-it's '  studio. 
Delicious  to  watch  the  conflict  between  relief  and 
disappointment.  Alas !  no  model — not  even  a  statue 
without  clothes;  nothing  but  portrait  heads,  casts 


242  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

of  animals,  and  such-like  sobrieties — absolutely 
nothing  that  could  bring  a  blush  to  the  cheek  of  the 
young  person,  or  a  glow  to  the  eyes  of  a  Johnny 
Dromore. 

With  what  curious  silence  he  walked  round  and 
round  the  group  of  sheep-dogs,  inquiring  into  them 
with  that  long  crinkled  nose  of  his!  With  what 
curious  suddenness,  he  said:  "Damned  good!  You 
wouldn't  do  me  one  of  Nell  on  horseback?"  With 
what  dubious  watchfulness  he  Ustened  to  the  answer: 

"I  might,  perhaps,  do  a  statuette  of  her;  if  I  did, 
you  should  have  a  cast." 

Did  he  think  that  in  some  way  he  was  being  out- 
manoeuvred? For  he  remained  some  seconds  in  a 
sort  of  trance  before  muttering,  as  though  clinching 
a  bet: 

"Done!  And  if  you  want  to  ride  with  her  to  get 
the  hang  of  it,  I  can  always  mount  you." 

When  he  had  gone,  Lennan  remained  staring  at 
his  unfinished  sheep-dogs  in  the  gathering  dusk. 
Again  that  sense  of  irritation  at  contact  with  some- 
thing strange,  hostile,  uncomprehending!  Why  let 
these  Dromores  into  his  life  like  this?  He  shut  the 
studio,  and  went  back  to  the  drawing-room.  Sylvia 
was  sitting  on  the  fender,  gazing  at  the  fire,  and  she 
edged  along  so  as  to  rest  against  his  knees.  The 
light  from  a  candle  on  her  writing-table  was  shining 
on  her  hair,  her  cheek,  and  chin,  that  years  had  so 
little  altered.  A  pretty  picture  she  made,  with  just 
that  candle  flame,  swaying  there,  burning  slowly, 
surely  down  the  pale  wax — candle  flame,  of  all  life- 


AUTUMN  243 

less  things  most  living,  most  like  a  spirit,  so  bland 
and  vague,  one  would  hardly  have  known  it  was 
fire  at  all.  A  drift  of  wind  blew  it  this  way  and  that : 
he  got  up  to  shut  the  window,  and  as  he  came  back, 
Sylvia  said: 

"I  like  Mr.  Dromore.  I  think  he's  nicer  than  he 
looks." 

"He's  asked  me  to  make  a  statuette  of  his  daugh- 
ter on  horseback." 

"And  will  you?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"If  she's  really  so  pretty,  you'd  better." 

"Pretty's  hardly  the  word — but  she's  not  ordi- 
nary." 

She  turned  round,  and  looked  up  at  him,  and 
instinctively  he  felt  that  something  difiicult  to  an- 
swer was  coming  next. 

"Mark." 

"Yes." 

"I  wanted  to  ask  you:  Are  you  really  happy 
nowadays?" 

' '  Of  course.    Why  not?  " 

What  else  to  be  said?  To  speak  of  those  feelings 
of  the  last  few  months — those  feelings  so  ridiculous 
to  anyone  who  had  them  not — would  only  disturb 
her  horribly. 

And  having  received  her  answer,  Sylvia  turned  back 
to  the  fire,  resting  silently  against  his  knees.   .   .   . 

Three  days  later  the  sheep-dogs  suddenly  aban- 
doned the  pose  into  which  he  had  lured  them  with 


244  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

such  difficulty,  and  made  for  the  studio  door.  There 
in  the  street  was  Nell  Dromore,  mounted  on  a  nar- 
row Httle  black  horse  with  a  white  star,  a  white 
hoof,  and  devilish  httle  goat's  ears,  pricked,  and 
very  close  together  at  the  tips. 

"Dad  said  I  had  better  ride  round  and  show  you 
Magpie.  He's  not  very  good  at  standing  still.  Are 
those  your  dogs?     What  darlings!" 

She  had  slipped  her  knee  already  from  the  pum- 
mel, and  shd  down;  the  sheep-dogs  were  instantly 
on  their  hind-feet,  propping  themselves  against  her 
waist.  Lennan  held  the  black  horse — a  bizarre  little 
beast,  all  fire  and  whipcord,  with  a  skin  like  satin, 
liquid  eyes,  very  straight  hocks,  and  a  thin  bang- 
tail reaching  down  to  them.  The  little  creature 
had  none  of  those  commonplace  good  looks  so  dis- 
couraging to  artists. 

He  had  forgotten  its  rider,  till  she  looked  up  from 
the  dogs,  and  said:  "Do  you  like  him?  It  is  nice 
of  you  to  be  going  to  do  us." 

When  she  had  ridden  away,  looking  back  until 
she  turned  the  corner,  he  tried  to  lure  the  two  dogs 
once  more  to  their  pose.  But  they  would  sit  no 
more,  going  continually  to  the  door,  Hstening  and 
sniffing;  and  everything  felt  disturbed  and  out  of 
gear. 

That  same  afternoon  at  Sylvia's  suggestion  he 
went  with  her  to  call  on  the  Dromores. 

While  they  were  being  ushered  in  he  heard  a 
man's  voice  rather  high-pitched  speaking  in  some 
language  not  his  own;   then  the  girl: 


AUTUMN  245 

« 

"No,  no,  Oliver.  'Dans  V amour  il  y  a  toujours 
un  qui  aime,  et  V autre  qui  se  laisse  aimer.''' 

She  was  sitting  in  her  father's  chair,  and  on  the 
window-sill  they  saw  a  young  man  lolling,  who  rose 
and  stood  stock-still,  with  an  almost  insolent  expres- 
sion on  his  broad,  good-looking  face.  Lennan  scru- 
tinized him  with  interest — about  twenty-four  he 
might  be,  rather  dandified,  clean-shaved,  with  crisp 
dark  hair  and  wide-set  hazel  eyes,  and,  as  in  his 
photograph,  a  curious  look  of  daring.  His  voice, 
when  he  vouchsafed  a  greeting,  was  rather  high  and 
not  unpleasant,  with  a  touch  of  lazy  drawl. 

They  stayed  but  a  few  minutes,  and  going  down 
those  dimly  lighted  stairs  again,  Sylvia  remarked: 

"How  prettily  she  said  good-bye — as  if  she  were 
putting  up  her  face  to  be  kissed!  I  think  she's 
lovely.  So  does  that  young  man.  They  go  well 
together." 

Rather  abruptly  Lennan  answered: 

"Ah!     I  suppose  they  do." 

VI 

She  came  to  them  often  after  that,  sometimes 
alone,  twice  with  Johnny  Dromore,  sometimes  with 
young  Oliver,  who,  under  Sylvia's  spell,  soon  lost 
his  stand-off  air.  And  the  statuette  was  begun. 
Then  came  Spring  in  earnest,  and  that  real  business 
of  life — the  racing  of  horses  'on  the  flat,'  when 
Johnny  Dromore's  genius  was  no  longer  hampered 
by  the  illegitimate  risks  of  'jumpin'.'     He  came  to 


246  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

dine  v^dth  them  the  day  before  the  first  Newmarket 
meeting.  He  had  a  soft  spot  for  Sylvia,  always 
saying  to  Lennan  as  he  went  away:  "Charmin' 
woman — your  wife!"  She,  too,  had  a  soft  spot  for 
him,  having  fathomed  the  utter  helplessness  of  this 
worldling's  wisdom,  and  thinking  him  pathetic. 

After  he  was  gone  that  evening,  she  said: 

"Ought  we  to  have  Nell  to  stay  with  us  while 
you're  finishing  her?  She  must  be  very  lonely  now 
her  father's  so  much  away." 

It  was  like  Sylvia  to  think  of  that;  but  would  it 
be  pleasure  or  vexation  to  have  in  the  house  this 
child  with  her  quaint  grown-upness,  her  confiding 
ways,  and  those  'Perdita'  eyes?  In  truth  he  did 
not  know. 

She  came  to  them  with  touching  alacrity — very 
like  a  dog,  who,  left  at  home  when  the  family  goes 
for  a  holiday,  takes  at  once  to  those  who  m^ake 
much  of  it. 

And  she  was  no  trouble,  too  well  accustomed  to 
amuse  herself;  and  always  quaint  to  watch,  with 
her  continual  changes  from  child  to  woman  of  the 
world.  A  new  sensation,  this — of  a  young  creature 
in  the  house.  Both  he  and  Sylvia  had  wanted 
children,  without  luck.  Twice  illness  had  stood  in 
the  way.  Was  it,  perhaps,  just  that  little  lack  in 
her — that  lack  of  poignancy,  which  had  prevented 
her  from  becoming  a  mother?  An  only  child  her- 
self, she  had  no  nieces  or  nephews;  Cicely's  boys 
had  always  been  at  school,  and  now  were  out  in 
the  world.     Yes,  a  new  sensation,  and  one  in  which 


AUTUMN  247 

Lennan's  restless  feelings  seemed  to  merge  and 
vanish. 

Outside  the  hours  when  Nell  sat  to  him,  he  pur- 
posely saw  but  little  of  her,  leaving  her  to  nestle 
under  Sylvia's  wing;  and  this  she  did,  as  if  she  never 
wanted  to  come  out.  Thus  he  preserved  his  amuse- 
ment at  her  quaint  warmths,  and  quainter  calmness, 
his  aesthetic  pleasure  in  watching  her,  whose  strange, 
half -hypnotized,  half -hypnotic  gaze,  had  a  sort  of 
dreamy  and  pathetic  lovingness,  as  if  she  were  brim- 
ful of  affections  that  had  no  outlet. 

Every  morning  after  'sitting'  she  would  stay  an 
hour  bent  over  her  own  drawing,  which  made  prac- 
tically no  progress;  and  he  would  often  catch  her 
following  his  movements  with  those  great  eyes  of 
hers,  while  the  sheep-dogs  would  He  perfectly  still 
at  her  feet,  blinking  horribly — such  was  her  attrac- 
tion. His  birds  also,  a  jackdaw  and  an  owl,  who 
had  the  run  of  the  studio,  tolerated  her  as  they  tol- 
erated no  other  female,  save  the  housekeeper.  The 
jackdaw  would  perch  on  her  and  peck  her  dress; 
but  the  owl  merely  engaged  her  in  combats  of  mes- 
meric gazing,  which  never  ended  in  victory  for  either. 

Now  that  she  was  with  them,  OHver  Dromore 
began  to  haunt  the  house,  coming  at  all  hours,  on 
very  transparent  excuses.  She  behaved  to  him  with 
extreme  capriciousness,  sometimes  hardly  speaking, 
sometimes  treating  him  like  a  brother;  and  in  spite 
of  all  his  nonchalance,  the  poor  youth  would  just 
sit  glowering,  or  gazing  out  his  adoration,  according 
to  her  mood. 


248  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

One  of  these  July  evenings  Lennan  remembered 
beyond  all  others.  He  had  come,  after  a  hard  day's 
work,  out  from  his  studio  into  the  courtyard  garden 
to  smoke  a  cigarette  and  feel  the  sun  on  his  cheek 
before  it  sank  behind  the  wall.  A  piano-organ  far 
away  was  grinding  out  a  waltz;  and  on  an  hydran- 
gea tub,  under  the  drawing-room  window,  he  sat  down 
to  listen.  Nothing  was  visible  from  there,  save  just 
the  square  patch  of  a  quite  blue  sky,  and  one  soft 
plume  of  smoke  from  his  own  kitchen  chimney;  noth- 
ing audible  save  that  tune,  and  the  never-ending 
street  murmur.  Twice  birds  flew  across — starlings. 
It  was  very  peaceful,  and  his  thoughts  went  floating 
like  the  smoke  of  his  cigarette,  to  meet  who-knew- 
what  other  thoughts — for  thoughts,  no  doubt,  had 
little  swift  lives  of  their  own;  desired,  found  their 
mates,  and,  lightly  blending,  sent  forth  offspring. 
Why  not?  All  things  were  possible  in  this  wonder- 
house  of  a  world.  Even  that  waltz  tune,  floating 
away,  would  find  some  melody  to  wed,  and  twine 
with,  and  produce  a  fresh  chord  that  might  float 
in  turn  to  catch  the  hum  of  a  gnat  or  fly,  and  breed 
again.  Queer — how  everything  sought  to  entwine 
with  something  else!  On  one  of  the  pinkish  blooms 
of  the  hydrangea  he  noted  a  bee — of  all  things,  in 
this  hidden-away  garden  of  tiles  and  gravel  and 
plants  in  tubs!  The  little  furry,  lonely  thing  was 
drowsily  clinging  there,  as  if  it  had  forgotten  what 
it  had  come  for — seduced,  maybe,  like  himself,  from 
labour  by  these  last  rays  of  the  sun.  Its  wings, 
close-furled,  were  ghstening;  its  eyes  seemed  closed. 


AUTUMN  249 

And  the  piano-organ  played  on,  a  tune  of  yearning, 
waiting,  yearning.  .  .  . 

Then,  through  the  window  above  his  head,  he 
heard  OHver  Dromore — a  voice  one  could  always 
tell,  pitched  high,  with  its  slight  drawl — pleading, 
very  softly  at  first,  then  insistent,  imperious;  and 
suddenly  Nell's  answering  voice: 

"I  won't,  Oliver!    I  won't!    I  won't!" 

He  rose  to  go  out  of  earshot.  Then  a  door 
slammed,  and  he  saw  her  at  the  window  above  him, 
her  waist  on  a  level  with  his  head;  flushed,  with  her 
grey  eyes  ominously  bright,  her  full  Hps  parted. 
And  he  said: 

"What  is  it,  Nell?" 

She  leaned  down  and  caught  his  hand;  her  touch 
was  fiery  hot. 

"He  kissed  me!  I  won't  let  him — I  won't  kiss 
him!" 

Through  his  head  went  a  medley  of  savings  to 
soothe  children  that  are  hurt;  but  he  felt  unsteady, 
unlike  himself.  And  suddenly  she  knelt,  and  put 
her  hot  forehead  against  his  lips. 

It  was  as  if  she  had  really  been  a  httle  child, 
wanting  the  place  kissed  to  make  it  well. 

vn 

After  that  strange  outburst,  Lennan  considered 
long  whether  he  should  speak  to  Oliver.  But  what 
could  he  say,  from  what  standpoint  say  it,  and — 


250  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

with  that  feehng?  Or  should  he  speak  to  Dromore? 
Not  very  easy  to  speak  on  such  a  subject  to  one  off 
whose  turf  all  spiritual  matters  were  so  permanently 
warned.  Nor  somehow  could  he  bring  himself  to 
tell  Sylvia;  it  would  be  like  violating  a  confidence 
to  speak  of  the  child's  outburst  and  that  quivering 
moment,  when  she  had  kneeled  and  put  her  hot 
forehead  to  his  lips  for  comfort.  Such  a  disclosure 
was  for  Nell  herself  to  make,  if  she  so  wished. 

And  then  young  Oliver  solved  the  difficulty  by 
coming  to  the  studio  himself  next  day.  He  entered 
with  'Dromore'  composure,  very  well  groomed,  in 
a  silk  hat,  a  cut-away  black  coat  and  charming 
lemon-coloured  gloves;  what,  indeed,  the  youth 
did,  besides  belonging  to  the  Yeomanry  and  hunt- 
ing all  the  winter,  seemed  known  only  to  himself. 
He  made  no  excuse  for  interrupting  Lennan,  and  for 
some  time  sat  silently  smoking  his  cigarette,  and 
pulling  the  ears  of  the  dogs.  And  Lennan  worked 
on,  waiting.  There  was  always  something  attract- 
ive to  him  in  this  young  man's  broad,  good-looking 
face,  with  its  crisp  dark  hair,  and  half-insolent  good 
humour,  now  so  clouded. 

At  last  Oliver  got  up,  and  went  over  to  the  un- 
finished 'Girl  on  the  Magpie  Horse.'  Turning  to  it 
so  that  his  face  could  not  be  seen,  he  said: 

"You  and  Mrs.  Lennan  have  been  awfully  kind 
to  me;  I  behaved  rather  like  a  cad  yesterday.  I 
thought  I'd  better  tell  you.  I  want  to  marry  Nell, 
you  know." 

Lennan  was  glad  that  the  young  man's  face  was 


AUTUMN  251 

so  religiously  averted.  He  let  his  hands  come  to 
anchor  on  what  he  was  working  at  before  he  an- 
swered: "She's  only  a  child,  Oliver;"  and  then, 
watching  his  fingers  making  an  inept  movement 
with  the  clay,  was  astonished  at  himself. 

"She'll  be  eighteen  this  month,"  he  heard  Oliver 
say.  "If  she  once  gets  out — amongst  people — I 
don't  know  what  I  shall  do.  Old  Johnny's  no  good 
to  look  after  her." 

The  young  man's  face  was  very  red;  he  was  for- 
getting to  hide  it  now.  Then  it  went  white,  and 
he  said  through  clenched  teeth:  "She  sends  me  mad! 

I  don't  know  how  not  to If  I  don't  get  her,  I 

shall  shoot  myself.  I  shall,  you  know — I'm  that 
sort.     It's  her  eyes.     They  draw  you  right  out  of 

yourself — and  leave  you "    And  from  his  gloved 

hand  the  smoked-out  cigarette-end  fell  to  the  floor. 
"They  say  her  mother  was  Hke  that.  Poor  old 
Johnny!  D'you  think  I've  got  a  chance,  Mr.  Len- 
nan?  I  don't  mean  now,  this  minute;  I  know  she's 
too  young." 

Lennan  forced  himself  to  answer. 

"I  dare  say,  my  dear  fellow,  I  dare  say.  Have 
you  talked  with  my  wife?" 

Oliver  shook  his  head. 

"  She's  so  good I  don't  think  she'd  quite  un- 
derstand my  sort  of  feeling." 

A  queer  little  smile  came  up  on  Lennan's  lips. 

"Ah,  well!"  he  said,  "you  must  give  the  child 
time.  Perhaps  when  she  comes  back  from  Ireland, 
after  the  summer." 


252  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

The  young  man  answered  moodily: 

''Yes.  I've  got  the  run  of  that,  you  know.  And 
I  shan't  be  able  to  keep  away."  He  took  up  his 
hat.  "I  suppose  I  oughtn't  to  have  come  and  bored 
you  about  this,  but  Nell  thinks  such  a  lot  of  you; 
and,  you  being  different  to  most  people — I  thought 
you  wouldn't  mind."  He  turned  again  at  the  door. 
"It  wasn't  gas  what  I  said  just  now — about  not 
getting  her.  Fellows  say  that  sort  of  thing,  but  I 
mean  it." 

He  put  on  that  shining  hat  and  went. 

And  Lennan  stood,  staring  at  the  statuette.  So! 
Passion  broke  down  even  the  defences  of  Dromore- 
dom.     Passion !    Strange  hearts  it  chose  to  bloom  in ! 

'Being  different  to  most  people — I  thought  you 
wouldn't  mind'!  How  had  this  youth  known  that 
Sylvia  would  not  understand  passion  so  out  of  hand 
as  this?  And  what  had  made  it  clear  that  he 
(Lennan)  would?  Was  there,  then,  something  in 
his  face?  There  must  be!  Even  Johnny  Dromore 
— most  reticent  of  creatures — had  confided  to  him 
that  one  hour  of  his  astute  existence,  when  the  wind 
had  swept  him  out  to  sea! 

Yes!  And  that  statuette  would  never  be  any 
good,  try  as  he  might.  Oliver  was  right — it  was 
her  eyes!  How  they  had  smoked — in  their  childish 
anger — if  eyes  could  be  said  to  smoke,  and  how  they 
had  drawn  and  pleaded  when  she  put  her  face  to 
his  in  her  still  more  childish  entreaty!  If  they  were 
like  this  now,  what  would  they  be  when  the  woman 
in  her  woke?    Just  as  well  not  to  think  of  her  too 


AUTUMN  253 

much!  Just  as  well  to  work,  and  take  heed  that 
he  would  soon  be  forty-seven!  Just  as  well  that 
next  week  she  would  be  gone  to  Ireland! 

And  the  last  evening  before  she  went  they  took 
her  to  see  "Carmen"  at  the  Opera.  He  remem- 
bered that  she  wore  a  nearly  high  white  frock,  and 
a  dark  carnation  in  the  ribbon  tying  her  crinkly  hair, 
that  still  hung  loose.  How  wonderfully  entranced 
she  sat,  drunk  on  that  opera  that  he  had  seen  a 
score  of  times;  now  touching  his  arm,  now  Sylvia's, 
whispering  questions:  "Who's  that?"  "What's 
coming  now?"  The  Carmen  roused  her  to  adora- 
tion, but  Don  Jose  was  'too  fat  in  his  funny  httle 
coat,'  till,  in  the  maddened  jealousy  of  the  last  act, 
he  rose  superior.  Then,  quite  lost  in  excitement, 
she  clutched  Lennan's  arm;  and  her  gasp,  when 
Carmen  at  last  fell  dead,  made  all  their  neighbours 
jump.  Her  emotion  was  far  more  moving  than  that 
on  the  stage;  he  wanted  badly  to  stroke,  and  com- 
fort her  and  say:  "There,  there,  my  dear,  it's  only 
make-believe!"  And,  when  it  was  over,  and  the 
excellent  murdered  lady  and  her  poor  fat  little  lover 
appeared  before  the  curtain,  finally  forgetting  that 
she  was  a  woman  of  the  world,  she  started  forward 
in  her  seat  and  clapped,  and  clapped.  Fortunate 
that  Johnny  Dromore  was  not  there  to  see!  But 
all  things  coming  to  an  end,  they  had  to  get  up 
and  go.  And,  as  they  made  their  way  out  to  the 
hall,  Lennan  felt  a  hot  little  finger  crooked  into  his 
own,  as  if  she  simply  must  have  something  to  squeeze. 
He  really  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  it.     She 


254  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

seemed  to  feel  this  half-heartedness,  soon  letting  it 
go.  All  the  way  home  in  the  cab  she  was  silent. 
With  that  same  abstraction  she  ate  her  sandwiches 
and  drank  her  lemonade;  took  Sylvia's  kiss,  and, 
quite  a  woman  of  the  world  once  more,  begged  that 
they  would  not  get  up  to  see  her  off — for  she  was 
to  go  at  seven  in  the  morning,  to  catch  the  Irish 
mail.  Then,  holding  out  her  hand  to  Lennan,  she 
very  gravely  said: 

"Thanks  most  awfully  for  taking  me  to-night. 
Good-bye!" 

He  stayed  full  half  an  hour  at  the  window,  smo- 
king. No  street  lamp  shone  just  there,  and  the  night 
was  velvety  black  above  the  plane-trees.  At  last, 
with  a  sigh,  he  shut  up,  and  went  tiptoe-ing  upstairs 
in  darkness.  Suddenly  in  the  corridor  the  white 
wall  seemed  to  move  at  him.  A  warmth,  a  fragrance, 
a  sound  like  a  tiny  sigh,  and  something  soft  was 
squeezed  into  his  hand.  Then  the  wall  moved  back, 
and  he  stood  listening — no  sound,  no  anything! 
But  in  his  dressing-room  he  looked  at  the  soft  thing 
in  his  hand.  It  was  the  carnation  from  her  hair. 
What  had  possessed  the  child  to  give  him  that? 
Carmen!  Ah!  Carmen!  And  gazing  at  the  flower, 
he  held  it  away  from  him  with  a  sort  of  terror;  but 
its  scent  arose.  And  suddenly  he  thrust  it,  all  fresh 
as  it  was,  into  a  candle-flame,  and  held  it,  burning, 
writhing,  till  it  blackened  to  velvet.  Then  his  heart 
smote  him  for  so  cruel  a  deed.  It  was  still  beautiful, 
but  its  scent  was  gone.  And  turning  to  the  window 
he  flung  it  far  out  into  the  darkness. 


AUTUMN  255 

VIII 

Now  that  she  was  gone,  it  was  curious  how  httle 
they  spoke  of  her,  considering  how  long  she  had  been 
with  them.  And  they  had  from  her  but  one  letter 
written  to  Sylvia,  very  soon  after  she  left,  ending: 
"Dad  sends  his  best  respects,  please;  and  with  my 
love  to  you  and  Mr.  Lennan,  and  all  the  beasts. — 
Nell. 

"Oliver  is  coming  here  next  week.  We  are  going 
to  some  races." 

It  was  difficult,  of  course,  to  speak  of  her,  with 
that  episode  of  the  flower,  too  bizarre  to  be  told — 
the  sort  of  thing  Sylvia  would  see  out  of  all  propor- 
tion— as,  indeed,  any  woman  might.  Yet — what 
had  it  really  been,  but  the  uncontrolled  impulse  of 
an  emotional  child  longing  to  express  feelings  kin- 
dled by  the  excitement  of  that  opera?  What  but 
a  child's  feathery  warmth,  one  of  those  flying  peeps 
at  the  mystery  of  passion  that  young  things  take? 
He  could  not  give  away  that  pretty  foolishness. 
And  because  he  would  not  give  it  away,  he  was  more 
than  usually  affectionate  to  Sylvia. 

They  had  made  no  holiday  plans,  and  he  eagerly 
fell  in  with  her  suggestion  that  they  should  go  down 
to  Hayle.  There,  if  anywhere,  this  curious  restless- 
ness would  leave  him.  They  had  not  been  down 
to  the  old  place  for  many  years;  indeed,  since 
Gordy's  death  it  was  generally  let. 

They  left  London  late  in  August.     The  day  was 


256  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

closing  in  when  they  arrived.  Honeysuckle  had  long 
been  improved  away  from  that  station  paling,  against 
which  he  had  stood  twenty-nine  years  ago,  watching 
the  train  carrying  Anna  Stormer  away.  In  the  hired 
fly  Sylvia  pressed  close  to  him,  and  held  his  hand 
beneath  the  ancient  dust-rug.  Both  felt  the  same 
excitement  at  seeing  again  this  old  home.  Not  a 
single  soul  of  the  past  days  would  be  there  now — 
only  the  house  and  the  trees,  the  owls  and  the  stars; 
the  river,  park,  and  logan  stone !  It  was  dark  when 
they  arrived;  just  their  bedroom  and  two  sitting- 
rooms  had  been  made  ready,  with  fires  burning, 
though  it  was  still  high  summer.  The  same  old 
execrable  Heatherleys  looked  down  from  the  black 
oak  panellings.  The  same  scent  of  apples  and  old 
mice  clung  here  and  there  about  the  dark  corridors 
with  their  unexpected  stairways.  It  was  all  curi- 
ously unchanged,  as  old  houses  are  when  they  are 
let  furnished. 

Once  in  the  night  he  woke.  Through  the  wide- 
open,  uncurtained  windows  the  night  was  simply 
alive  with  stars,  such  swarms  of  them  swinging  and 
trembling  up  there;  and,  far  away,  rose  the  mel- 
ancholy, velvet-soft  hooting  of  an  owl. 

Sylvia's  voice,  close  to  him,  said: 

"Mark,  that  night  when  your  star  caught  in  my 
hair?     Do  you  remember?" 

Yes,  he  remembered.  And  in  his  drowsy  mind 
just  roused  from  dreams,  there  turned  and  turned 
the  queer  nonsensical  refrain:  "I  never — never — 
will  desert  Mr.  Micawber.  ..." 


AUTUMN  257 

A  pleasant  month  that — of  reading,  and  walking 
with  the  dogs  the  country  round,  of  lying  out  long 
hours  amongst  the  boulders  or  along  the  river  banks, 
watching  beasts  and  birds. 

The  little  old  green-house  temple  of  his  early 
masterpieces  was  still  extant,  used  now  to  protect 
watering  pots.  But  no  vestige  of  impulse  towards 
work  came  to  him  down  there.  He  was  marking 
time;  not  restless,  not  bored,  just  waiting — but  for 
what,  he  had  no  notion.  And  Sylvia,  at  any  rate, 
was  happy,  blooming  in  these  old  haunts,  losing  her 
fairness  in  the  sun;  even  taking  again  to  a  sun- 
bonnet,  which  made  her  look  extraordinarily  young. 
The  trout  that  poor  old  Gordy  had  so  harried  were 
left  undisturbed.  No  gun  was  fired;  rabbits,  pig- 
eons, even  the  few  partridges  enjoyed  those  first 
days  of  autumn  unmolested.  The  bracken  and 
leaves  turned  very  early,  so  that  the  park  in  the 
hazy  September  sunlight  had  an  almost  golden  hue. 
A  gentle  mellowness  reigned  over  all  that  hohday. 
And  from  Ireland  came  no  further  news,  save  one 
picture  postcard  with  the  words:  "This  is  our 
house. — Nell." 

In  the  last  week  of  September  they  went  back  to 
London.  And  at  once  there  began  in  him  again 
that  restless,  unreasonable  aching — that  sense  of 
being  drawn  away  out  of  himself;  so  that  he  once 
more  took  to  walking  the  Park  for  hours,  over  grass 
already  strewn  with  leaves,  always  looking — cra- 
ving— and  for  what? 

At  Dromore's  the  confidential  man  did  not  know 


258  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

when  his  master  would  be  back;  he  had  gone  to 
Scotland  with  Miss  Nell  after  the  St.  Leger.  Was 
Lennan  disappointed?  Not  so — relieved,  rather. 
But  his  ache  was  there  all  the  time,  feeding  on  its 
secrecy  and  loneliness,  unmentionable  feeling  that 
it  was.  Why  had  he  not  realized  long  ago  that 
youth  was  over,  passion  done  with,  autumn  upon 
him?  How  never  grasped  the  fact  that '  Time  steals 
away '?  And,  as  before,  the  only  refuge  was  in  work. 
The  sheep-dogs  and  'The  Girl  on  the  Magpie  Horse' 
were  finished.  He  began  a  fantastic  'relief — a 
nymph  peering  from  behind  a  rock,  and  a  wild-eyed 
man  creeping,  through  reeds,  towards  her.  If  he 
could  put  into  the  nymph's  face  something  of  this 
lure  of  Youth  and  Life  and  Love  that  was  dragging 
at  him,  into  the  man's  face  the  state  of  his  own 
heart,  it  might  lay  that  feeling  to  rest.  Anything 
to  get  it  out  of  himself!  And  he  worked  furiously, 
laboriously,  all  October,  making  no  great  progress. 
.  .  .  What  could  he  expect  when  Life  was  all  the 
time  knocking  with  that  muffled  tapping  at  his  door? 
It  was  on  the  Tuesday,  after  the  close  of  the  last 
Newmarket  meeting,  and  just  getting  dusk,  when 
Life  opened  the  door  and  walked  in.  She  wore  a 
dark-red  dress,  a  new  one,  and  surely  her  face — • 
her  figure — were  very  different  from  what  he  had 
remembered!  They  had  quickened  and  become 
poignant.  She  was  no  longer  a  child — that  was  at 
once  plain.  Cheeks,  mouth,  neck,  waist — all  seemed 
fined,  shaped;  the  crinkly,  light-brown  hair  was 
coiled  up  now  under  a  velvet  cap;   only  the  great 


AUTUMN  259 

grey  eyes  seemed  quite  the  same.  And  at  sight  of 
her  his  heart  gave  a  sort  of  dive  and  flight,  as  if  all 
its  vague  and  wistful  sensations  had  found  their 
goal. 

Then,  in  sudden  agitation,  he  realized  that  his 
last  moment  with  this  girl — now  a  child  no  longer 
— had  been  a  secret  moment  of  warmth  and  of  emo- 
tion; a  moment  which  to  her  might  have  meant,  in 
her  might  have  bred,  feehngs  that  he  had  no  inkling 
of.  He  tried  to  ignore  that  flighting  and  diving  of 
his  heart,  held  out  his  hand,  and  murmured: 

"Ah,  NeU!    Back  at  last!    You've  grown." 

Then,  with  a  sensation  of  every  limb  gone  weak, 
he  felt  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  herself  pressed 
against  him.  There  was  time  for  the  thought  to 
flash  through  him:  This  is  terrible!  He  gave  her  a 
little  convulsive  squeeze — could  a  man  do  less? — 
then  just  managed  to  push  her  gently  away,  trying 
with  all  his  might  to  think:  She's  a  child!  It's 
nothing  more  than  after  Carmen!  She  doesn't  know 
what  I  am  feehng!  But  he  was  conscious  of  a  mad 
desire  to  clutch  her  to  him.  The  touch  of  her  had 
demolished  all  his  vagueness,  made  things  only  too 
plain,  set  him  on  fire. 

He  said  uncertainly: 

"Come  to  the  fire,  my  cliild,  and  tell  me  all  about 
it." 

If  he  did  not  keep  to  the  notion  that  she  was  just 
a  child,  his  head  would  go.  Perdita — '  the  lost  one ' ! 
A  good  name  for  her,  indeed,  as  she  stood  there,  her 
eyes  shining  in  the  firelight — more  mesmeric  than 


26o  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

ever  they  had  been !  And,  to  get  away  from  the  lure 
of  those  eyes,  he  bent  down  and  raked  the  grate, 
saying : 

"Have  you  seen  Sylvia?"  But  he  knew  that  she 
had  not,  even  before  she  gave  that  impatient  shrug. 
Then  he  pulled  himself  together,  and  said: 

"What  has  happened  to  you,  child?" 

"I'm  not  a  child." 

"No,  we've  both  grown  older.  I  was  forty-seven 
the  other  day." 

She  caught  his  hand — Heavens!  how  supple  she 
was! — and  murmured: 

"You're  not  old  a  bit;   you're  quite  young." 

At  his  wits'  end,  with  his  heart  thumping,  but 
still  keeping  his  eyes  away  from  her,  he  said: 

"Where  is  Oliver?" 

She  dropped  his  hand  at  that. 

"Oliver?     I  hate  him!" 

Afraid  to  trust  himself  near  her,  he  had  begun 
walking  up  and  down.  And  she  stood,  following 
him  with  her  gaze — the  firelight  playing  on  her  red 
frock.  What  extraordinary  stillness!  What  power 
she  had  developed  in  these  few  months!  Had  he 
let  her  see  that  he  felt  that  power?  And  had  all 
this  come  of  one  httle  moment  in  a  dark  corridor, 
of  one  flower  pressed  into  his  hand?  Why  had  he 
not  spoken  to  her  roughly  then — told  her  she  was  a 
romantic  little  fool?  God  knew  what  thoughts  she 
had  been  feeding  on!  But  who  could  have  supposed 
— who  dreamed — ?  And  again  he  fixed  his  mind  res- 
olutely on  that  thought:  She's  a  child — only  a  child! 


AUTUMN  261 

"Come!"  he  said:  "tell  me  all  about  your  time 
in  Ireland?" 

"Oh!  it  was  just  dull — it's  all  been  dull  away 
from  you." 

It  came  out  without  hesitancy  or  shame,  and  he 
could  only  murmur: 

"Ah!  you've  missed  your  drawing!" 

"Yes.     Can  I  come  to-morrow?" 

That  was  the  moment  to  have  said:  No!  You 
are  a  fooHsh  child,  and  I  an  elderly  idiot!  But  he 
had  neither  courage  nor  clearness  of  mind  enough; 
nor — the  desire.  And,  without  answering,  he  went 
towards  the  door  to  turn  up  the  light. 

"Oh,  no!    please  don't!     It's  so  nice  like  this!" 

The  shadowy  room,  the  bluish  dusk  painted  on 
all  the  windows,  the  fitful  shining  of  the  fire,  the 
pallor  and  darkness  of  the  dim  casts  and  bronzes, 
and  that  one  glowing  figure  there  before  the  hearth! 
And  her  voice,  a  little  piteous,  went  on: 

"Aren't  you  glad  I'm  back?  I  can't  see  you 
properly  out  there." 

He  went  back  into  the  glow,  and  she  gave  a  little 
sigh  of  satisfaction.  Then  her  calm  young  voice 
said,  ever  so  distinctly: 

"Oliver  wants  me  to  marry  him,  and  I  won't,  of 
course." 

He  dared  not  say:  Why  not?  He  dared  not  say 
anything.  It  was  too  dangerous.  And  then  fol- 
lowed those  amazing  words:  "You  know  why,  don't 
you?     Of  course  you  do." 

It  was  ridiculous,  almost  shameful  to  understand 


262  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

their  meaning.  And  he  stood,  staring  in  front  of 
him,  without  a  word;  humiUty,  dismay,  pride,  and 
a  sort  of  mad  exultation,  all  mixed  and  seething 
within  him  in  the  queerest  pudding  of  emotion. 
But  all  he  said  was: 

"Come,  my  child;   we're  neither  of  us  quite  our- 
selves to-night.     Let's  go  to  the  drawing-room." 


LX 

Back  in  the  darkness  and  solitude  of  the  studio, 
when  she  was  gone,  he  sat  down  before  the  fire,  his 
senses  in  a  whirl.  Why  was  he  not  just  an  ordinary 
animal  of  a  man  that  could  enjoy  what  the  gods  had 
sent?  It  was  as  if  on  a  November  day  someone  had 
pulled  aside  the  sober  curtains  of  the  sky  and  there 
in  a  chink  had  been  April  standing — thick  white 
blossom,  a  purple  cloud,  a  rainbow,  grass  vivid  green, 
light  flaring  from  one  knew  not  where,  and  such  a 
tingling  passion  of  life  on  it  all  as  made  the  heart 
stand  still!  This,  then,  was  the  marvellous,  en- 
chanting, maddening  end  of  all  that  year  of  restless- 
ness and  wanting!  This  bit  of  Spring  suddenly 
given  to  him  in  the  midst  of  Autumn.  Her  hps, 
her  eyes,  her  hair;  her  touching  confidence;  above 
all — quite  unbelievable — her  love.  Not  really  love 
perhaps,  just  childish  fancy.  But  on  the  wings  of 
fancy  this  child  would  fly  far,  too  far — all  wistful- 
ness  and  warmth  beneath  that  light  veneer  of  ab- 
surd composure. 


AUTUMN  263 

To  live  again — to  plunge  back  into  youth  and 
beauty — to  feel  Spring  once  more — to  lose  the  sense 
of  all  being  over,  save  just  the  sober  jogtrot  of  do- 
mestic bhss;  to  know,  actually  to  know,  ecstasy 
again,  in  the  love  of  a  girl;  to  rediscover  all  that 
youth  yearns  for,  and  feels,  and  hopes,  and  dreads, 
and  loves.  It  was  a  prospect  to  turn  the  head  even 
of  a  decent  man.  ... 

By  just  closing  his  eyes  he  could  see  her  standing 
there  with  the  firehght  glow  on  her  red  frock;  could 
feel  again  that  marvellous  thrill  when  she  pressed 
herself  against  him  in  the  half-innocent,  seducing 
moment  when  she  first  came  in;  could  feel  again  her 
eyes  drawing — drawing  him!  She  was  a  witch,  a 
grey-eyed,  brown-haired  witch — even  unto  her  love 
of  red.  She  had  the  witch's  power  of  lighting  fever 
in  the  veins.  And  he  simply  wondered  at  himself, 
that  he  had  not,  as  she  stood  there  in  the  firelight, 
knelt,  and  put  his  arms  round  her  and  pressed  his 
face  against  her  waist.  Why  had  he  not?  But  he 
did  not  want  to  think;  the  moment  thought  began 
he  knew  he  must  be  torn  this  way  and  that,  tossed 
here  and  there  between  reason  and  desire,  pity  and 
passion.  Every  sense  struggled  to  keep  him  wrapped 
in  the  warmth  and  intoxication  of  this  discovery 
that  he,  in  the  full  of  Autumn,  had  awakened  love 
in  Spring.  It  was  amazing  that  she  could  have  this 
feehng;  yet  there  was  no  mistake.  Her  manner  to 
Sylvia  just  now  had  been  almost  dangerously 
changed;  there  had  been  a  queer  cold  impatience 
in  her  look,  frightening  from  one  who  but  three 


264  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

months  ago  had  been  so  affectionate.  And,  going 
away,  she  had  whispered,  with  that  old  trembhng-up 
at  him,  as  if  offering  to  be  kissed:  "I  may  come, 
mayn't  I?  And  don't  be  angry  with  me,  please;  I 
can't  help  it."  A  monstrous  thing  at  his  age  to  let 
a  young  girl  love  him — compromise  her  future!  A 
monstrous  thing  by  all  the  canons  of  virtue  and 
gentiUty!  And  yet — what  future? — with  that  na- 
ture— those  eyes — that  origin — with  that  father, 
and  that  home?  But  he  would  not — simply  must 
not  think! 

Nevertheless,  he  showed  the  signs  of  thought,  and 
badly;  for  after  dinner  Sylvia,  putting  her  hand  on 
his  forehead,  said: 

"You're  working  too  hard,  Mark.  You  don't 
go  out  enough." 

He  held  those  fingers  fast.  Sylvia!  No,  indeed 
he  must  not  think!  But  he  took  advantage  of  her 
words,  and  said  that  he  would  go  out  and  get  some  air. 

He  walked  at  a  great  pace — to  keep  thought 
away — till  he  reached  the  river  close  to  Westminster, 
and,  moved  by  sudden  impulse,  seeking  perhaps  an 
antidote,  turned  down  into  that  Httle  street  under 
the  big  Wren  church,  where  he  had  never  been  since 
the  summer  night  when  he  lost  what  was  then  more 
to  him  than  hfe.  There  she  had  Uved;  there  was 
the  house — those  windows  which  he  had  stolen  past 
and  gazed  at  with  such  distress  and  longing.  Who 
lived  there  now?  Once  more  he  seemed  to  see  that 
face  out  of  the  past,  the  dark  hair,  and  dark  soft 
eyes,  and  sweet  gravity;    and  it  did  not  reproach 


AUTUMN  265 

him.  For  this  new  feeling  was  not  a  love  hke  that 
had  been.  Only  once  could  a  man  feel  the  love  that 
passed  all  things,  the  love  before  which  the  world 
was  but  a  spark  in  a  draught  of  wind;  the  love  that, 
whatever  dishonour,  grief,  and  unrest  it  might  come 
through,  alone  had  in  it  the  heart  of  peace  and  joy 
and  honour.  Fate  had  torn  that  love  from  him, 
nipped  it  off  as  a  sharp  wind  nips  off  a  perfect  flower. 
This  new  feeling  was  but  a  fever,  a  passionate  fancy, 
a  grasping  once  more  at  Youth  and  Warmth.  Ah, 
well!  but  it  was  real  enough!  And,  in  one  of  those 
moments  when  a  man  stands  outside  himself,  seems 
to  be  lifted  away  and  see  his  own  Hfe  twirling,  Len- 
nan  had  a  vision  of  a  shadow  driven  here  and  there; 
a  straw  going  round  and  round;  a  midge  in  the  grip 
of  a  mad  wind.  Where  was  the  home  of  this  mighty 
secret  feehng  that  sprang  so  suddenly  out  of  the  dark, 
and  caught  you  by  the  throat?  Why  did  it  come 
now  and  not  then,  for  this  one  and  not  that  other? 
What  did  man  know  of  it,  save  that  it  made  him 
spin  and  hover — like  a  moth  intoxicated  by  a  light, 
or  a  bee  by  some  dark  sweet  flower;  save  that  it 
made  of  him  a  distraught,  humble,  eager  puppet  of 
its  fancy?  Had  it  not  once  already  driven  him  even 
to  the  edge  of  death;  and  must  it  now  come  on  him 
again  with  its  sweet  madness,  its  drugging  scent? 
What  was  it?  Why  was  it?  Why  these  passionate 
obsessions  that  could  not  decently  be  satisfied? 
Had  civilization  so  outstripped  man  that  his  nature 
was  cramped  into  shoes  too  small — like  the  feet  of 
a  Chinese  woman?    What  was  it?    W^hy  was  it? 


266  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

And  faster  than  ever  he  walked  away. 

Pall  Mall  brought  him  back  to  that  counterfeit 
presentment  of  the  real — reahty.  There,  in  St. 
James's  Street,  was  Johnny  Dromore's  Club;  and, 
again  moved  by  impulse,  he  pushed  open  its  swing 
door.  No  need  to  ask;  for  there  was  Dromore  in 
the  hall,  on  his  way  from  dinner  to  the  card-room. 
The  glossy  tan  of  hard  exercise  and  good  hving  lay 
on  his  cheeks  as  thick  as  clouted  cream.  His  eyes 
had  the  peculiar  shine  of  superabundant  vigour;  a 
certain  sub-festive  air  in  face  and  voice  and  move- 
ments suggested  that  he  was  going  to  make  a  night 
of  it.  And  the  sardonic  thought  flashed  through 
Lennan:   Shall  I  tell  him? 

"Hallo,  old  chap!  Awfully  glad  to  see  you! 
What  you  doin'  with  yourself?  Workin'  hard? 
How's  your  wife?  You  been  away?  Been  doin'  any- 
thing great?"  And  then  the  question  that  would 
have  given  him  his  chance,  if  he  had  liked  to  be  so 
cruel : 

"Seen  Nell?" 

"Yes,  she  came  round  this  afternoon." 

"What  d'you  think  of  her?  Comin'  on  nicely, 
isn't  she?" 

That  old  query,  half  furtive  and  half  proud,  as 
much  as  to  say:  'I  know  she's  not  in  the  stud-book, 
but,  d n  it,  I  sired  her!'  And  then  the  old  sud- 
den gloom,  which  lasted  but  a  second,  and  gave 
way  again  to  chaff. 

Lennan  stayed  very  few  minutes.  Never  had  he 
felt  farther  from  his  old  school-chum. 


AUTUMN  267 

No.  Whatever  happened,  Johnny  Dromore  must 
be  left  out.  It  was  a  position  he  had  earned  with 
his  gogghng  eyes,  and  his  astute  philosophy;  from 
it  he  should  not  be  disturbed. 

He  passed  along  the  railings  of  the  Green  Park. 
On  the  cold  air  of  this  last  October  night  a  thin 
haze  hung,  and  the  acrid  fragrance  from  little  bon- 
fires of  fallen  leaves.  What  was  there  about  that 
scent  of  burned-leaf  smoke  that  had  always  moved 
him  so?  Symbol  of  parting! — that  most  mournful 
thing  in  all  the  world.  For  what  would  even  death 
be,  but  for  parting?  Sweet,  long  sleep,  or  new  ad- 
venture. But,  if  a  man  loved  others — to  leave 
them,  or  be  left!  Ah!  and  it  was  not  death  only 
that  brought  partings ! 

He  came  to  the  opening  of  the  street  where  Dro- 
more lived.  She  would  be  there,  sitting  by  the  fire 
in  the  big  chair,  playing  with  her  kitten,  thinking, 
dreaming,  and — alone!  He  passed  on  at  such  a 
pace  that  people  stared;  till,  turning  the  last  corner 
for  home,  he  ran  almost  into  the  arms  of  Oliver 
Dromore. 

The  young  man  was  walking  with  unaccustomed 
indecision,  his  fur  coat  open,  his  opera-hat  pushed 
up  on  his  crisp  hair.  Dark  under  the  eyes,  he  had 
not  the  proper  gloss  of  a  Dromore  at  this  season  of 
the  year. 

"Mr.  Lennan!     I've  just  been  round  to  you." 

And  Lennan  answered  dazedly: 

"Will  you  come  in,  or  shall  I  walk  your  way  a 
bit?" 


268  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

"I'd  rather — out  here,  if  you  don't  mind." 

So  in  silence  they  went  back  into  the  Square. 
And  OUver  said: 

"Let's  get  over  by  the  rails." 

They  crossed  to  the  railings  of  the  Square's  dark 
garden,  where  nobody  was  passing.  And  with  every 
step  Lennan's  humiliation  grew.  There  was  some- 
thing false  and  undignified  in  walking  with  this 
young  man  who  had  once  treated  him  as  a  father 
confessor  to  his  love  for  Nell.  And  suddenly  he 
perceived  that  they  had  made  a  complete  circuit  of 
the  Square  garden  without  speaking  a  single  word. 

"Yes?"  he  said. 

Oliver  turned  his  face  away. 

"You  remember  what  I  told  you  in  the  summer. 
Well,  it's  worse  now.  I've  been  going  a  mucker 
lately  in  all  sorts  of  ways  to  try  and  get  rid  of  it. 
But  it's  all  no  good.     She's  got  me!" 

And  Lennan  thought:  You're  not  alone  in  that! 
But  he  kept  silence.  His  chief  dread  was  of  saying 
something  that  he  would  remember  afterwards  as 
the  words  of  Judas. 

Then  Oliver  suddenly  burst  out: 

"Why  can't  she  care?  I  suppose  I'm  nothing 
much,  but  she's  known  me  all  her  Ufe,  and  she  used 
to  like  me.  There's  something — I  can't  make  out. 
Could  you  do  anything  for  me  with  her?" 

Lennan  pointed  across  the  street. 

"In  every  other  one  of  those  houses,  Oliver,"  he 
said,  "there's  probably  some  creature  who  can't 
make  out  why  another  creature  doesn't  care.    Pas- 


AUTUMN  269 

sion  comes  when  it  will,  goes  when  it  will;   and  we 
poor  devils  have  no  say  in  it." 

"What  do  you  advise  me,  then?" 

Lennan  had  an  almost  overwhelming  impulse  to 
turn  on  his  heel  and  leave  the  young  man  standing 
there.  But  he  forced  himself  to  look  at  his  face, 
which  even  then  had  its  attraction — ^perhaps  more 
so  than  ever,  so  pallid  and  desperate  it  was.  And 
he  said  slowly,  staring  mentally  at  every  word: 

"  I'm  not  up  to  gi\"ing  you  advice.  The  only  thing 
I  might  say  is :  One  does  not  press  oneself  where  one 
isn't  wanted;  all  the  same — who  knows?  So  long 
as  she  feels  you're  there,  waiting,  she  might  turn 
to  you  at  any  moment.  The  more  chivalrous  you 
are,  Oliver,  the  more  patiently  you  wait,  the  better 
chance  you  have." 

Oliver  took  those  words  of  little  comfort  without 
flinching.  "I  see,"  he  said.  "Thanks!  But,  my 
God  I  it's  hard.  I  never  could  wait."  And  with 
that  epigram  on  himself,  holding  out  his  hand,  he 
turned  away. 

Lennan  went  slowly  home,  trying  to  gauge  exactly 
how  anyone  who  knew  all  would  judge  him.  It  was 
a  little  difficult  in  this  affair  to  keep  a  shred  of  dig- 
nity. 

Sylvia  had  not  gone  up,  and  he  saw  her  looking 
at  him  anxiously.  The  one  strange  comfort  in  all 
this  was  that  his  feeling  for  her,  at  any  rate,  had 
not  changed.  It  seemed  even  to  have  deepened — 
to  be  more  real  to  him. 

How  could  he  help  staying  awake  that  night? 


270  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

How  could  he  help  thinking,  then?     And  long  time 
he  lay,  staring  at  the  dark. 

As  if  thinking  were  any  good  for  fever  in  the 
veins! 

X 

Passion  never  plays  the  game.  It,  at  all  events, 
is  free  from  self-consciousness,  and  pride;  from  dig- 
nity, nerves,  scruples,  cant,  morahties;  from  hypoc- 
risies, and  wisdom,  and  fears  for  pocket,  and  posi- 
tion in  this  world  and  the  next.  Well  did  the  old 
painters  limn  it  as  an  arrow  or  a  wind!  If  it 
had  not  been  as  swift  and  darting.  Earth  must 
long  ago  have  drifted  through  space  untenanted — to 
let.  .  .  . 

After  that  fevered  night  Lennan  went  to  his 
studio  at  the  usual  hour  and  naturally  did  not  do 
a  stroke  of  work.  He  was  even  obliged  to  send 
away  his  model.  The  fellow  had  been  his  hair- 
dresser, but,  getting  ill,  and  falling  on  dark  days, 
one  morning  had  come  to  the  studio,  to  ask  with 
manifest  shame  if  his  head  were  any  good.  After 
having  tested  his  capacity  for  standing  still,  and 
giving  him  some  introductions,  Lennan  had  noted 
him  down:  "Five  feet  nine,  good  hair,  lean  face, 
something  tortured  and  pathetic.  Give  him  a  turn 
if  possible."  The  turn  had  come,  and  the  poor 
man  was  posing  in  a  painful  attitude,  talking,  when- 
ever permitted,  of  the  way  things  had  treated  him, 
and  the  delights  of  cutting  hair.     This  morning  he 


AUTUMN  271 

took  his  departure  with  the  simple  pleasure  of  one 
fully  paid  for  services  not  rendered. 

And  so,  walking  up  and  down,  up  and  down,  the 
sculptor  waited  for  Nell's  knock.  What  would  hap- 
pen now?  Thinking  had  made  nothing  clear.  Here 
was  offered  what  every  warm-blooded  man  whose 
Spring  is  past  desires — youth  and  beauty,  and  in 
that  youth  a  renewal  of  his  own;  what  all  men 
save  hypocrites  and  Englishmen  would  even  admit 
that  they  desired.  And  it  was  offered  to  one  who 
had  neither  religious  nor  moral  scruples,  as  they 
are  commonly  understood.  In  theory  he  could  ac- 
cept. In  practice  he  did  not  as  yet  know  what  he 
could  do.  One  thing  only  he  had  discovered  during 
the  night's  reflections:  That  those  who  scouted  be- 
lief in  the  principle  of  Liberty  made  no  greater  mis- 
take than  to  suppose  that  Liberty  was  dangerous 
because  it  made  a  man  a  libertine.  To  those  with 
any  decency,  the  creed  of  Freedom  was — of  all — 
the  most  enchaining.  Easy  enough  to  break  chains 
imposed  by  others,  fling  his  cap  over  the  windmill, 
and  cry  for  the  moment  at  least:  I  am  unfettered, 
free!  Hard,  indeed,  to  say  the  same  to  his  own  un- 
fettered Self!  Yes,  his  own  Self  was  in  the  judg- 
ment-seat; by  his  own  verdict  and  decision  he  must 
abide.  And  though  he  ached  for  the  sight  of  her, 
and  his  will  seemed  paralyzed — many  times  already 
he  had  thought:    It  won't  do!     God  help  me! 

Then  twelve  o'clock  had  come,  and  she  had  not. 
Would  'The  Girl  on  the  Magpie  Horse'  be  all  he 
would  see  of  her  to-day — that  unsatisfying  work,  so 


272  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

cold,  and  devoid  of  witchery?  Better  have  tried  to 
paint  her — with  a  red  flower  in  her  hair,  a  pout  on 
her  Hps,  and  her  eyes  fey,  or  languorous.  Goya 
could  have  painted  her! 

And  then,  just  as  he  had  given  her  up,  she  came. 

After  taking  one  look  at  his  face,  she  slipped  in 
ever  so  quietly,  like  a  very  good  child.  .  .  .  Mar- 
vellous the  instinct  and  finesse  of  the  young  when 
they  are  women!  .  .  .  Not  a  vestige  in  her  of  yes- 
terday's seductive  power;  not  a  sign  that  there  had 
been  a  yesterday  at  all — just  confiding,  like  a  daugh- 
ter. Sitting  there,  telling  him  about  Ireland,  show- 
ing him  the  little  batch  of  drawings  she  had  done 
while  she  was  away.  Had  she  brought  them  be- 
cause she  knew  they  would  make  him  feel  sorry  for 
her?  What  could  have  been  less  dangerous,  more 
appealing  to  the  protective  and  paternal  side  of  him 
than  she  was  that  morning;  as  if  she  only  wanted 
what  her  father  and  her  home  could  not  give  her 
— only  wanted  to  be  a  sort  of  daughter  to  him! 

She  went  away  demurely,  as  she  had  come,  refu- 
sing to  stay  to  lunch,  manifestly  avoiding  Sylvia. 
Only  then  he  realized  that  she  must  have  taken 
alarm  from  the  look  of  strain  on  his  face,  been  afraid 
that  he  would  send  her  away;  only  then  perceived 
that,  with  her  appeal  to  his  protection,  she  had  been 
binding  him  closer,  making  it  harder  for  him  to 
break  away  and  hurt  her.  And  the  fevered  aching 
began  again — worse  than  ever — the  moment  he  lost 
sight  of  her.  And  more  than  ever  he  felt  in  the 
grip  of  something  beyond  his  power  to  fight  against; 


AUTUMN  273 

something  that,  however  he  swerved,  and  backed, 
and  broke  away,  would  close  in  on  him,  find  means 
to  bind  him  again  hand  and  foot. 

In  the  afternoon  Dromore's  confidential  man 
brought  him  a  note.  The  fellow,  with  his  cast-down 
eyes,  and  his  well-parted  hair,  seemed  to  Lennan  to 
be  saying:  "Yes,  sir — it  is  quite  natural  that  you 
should  take  the  note  out  of  eyeshot,  sir — hut  I  know; 
fortunately,  there  is  no  necessity  for  alarm — I  am 
strictly  confidential." 

And  this  was  what  the  note  contained: 

"You  promised  to  ride  with  me  once — you  did 
promise,  and  you  never  have.  Do  please  ride  with 
me  to-morrow;  then  you  will  get  what  you  want  for 
the  statuette  instead  of  being  so  cross  with  it.  You 
can  have  Dad's  horse — he  has  gone  to  Newmarket 
again,  and  I'm  so  lonely.  Please — to-morrow,  at 
half-past  two — starting  from  here. — Nell." 

To  hesitate  in  view  of  those  confidential  eyes  was 
not  possible;  it  must  be  'Yes'  or  'No';  and  if 
'No,'  it  would  only  mean  that  she  would  come  in 
the  morning  instead.     So  he  said: 

"Just  say  'All  right!'" 

"Very  good,  sir."  Then  from  the  door:  "Mr. 
Dromore  will  be  away  till  Saturday,  sir." 

Now,  why  had  the  fellow  said  that?  Curious  how 
this  desperate  secret  feehng  of  his  own  made  him 
see  sinister  meaning  in  this  servant,  in  Oliver's  visit 
of  last  night — in  everything.     It  was  vile — this  sus- 


274  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

piciousness!  He  could  feel,  almost  see,  himself  de- 
teriorating already,  with  this  furtive  feeling  in  his 
soul.  It  would  soon  be  written  on  his  face!  But 
what  was  the  use  of  troubling?  What  would  come, 
would — one  way  or  the  other. 

And  suddenly  he  remembered  with  a  shock  that 
it  was  the  first  of  November — Sylvia's  birthday! 
He  had  never  before  forgotten  it.  In  the  disturb- 
ance of  that  discovery  he  was  very  near  to  going 
and  pouring  out  to  her  the  whole  story  of  his  feel- 
ings. A  charming  birthday  present,  that  would 
make !  Taking  his  hat,  instead,  he  dashed  round  to 
the  nearest  flower  shop.     A  Frenchwoman  kept  it. 

What  had  she? 

What  did  Monsieur  desire?  ^^Des  (Billets  rouges? 
J^en  at  de  hien  beaux  ce  soir^ 

No — not  those.     White  flowers! 

''Une  belle  azalee?'' 

Yes,  that  would  do — to  be  sent  at  once — at  once! 

Next  door  was  a  jeweller's.  He  had  never  really 
known  if  Sylvia  cared  for  jewels,  since  one  day  he 
happened  to  remark  that  they  were  vulgar.  And 
feeling  that  he  had  fallen  low  indeed,  to  be  trying 
to  atone  with  some  miserable  gewgaw  for  never  hav- 
ing thought  of  her  all  day,  because  he  had  been 
thinking  of  another,  he  went  in  and  bought  the 
only  ornament  whose  ingredients  did  not  make  his 
gorge  rise,  two  small  pear-shaped  black  pearls,  one 
at  each  end  of  a  fine  platinum  chain.  Coming  out 
with  it,  he  noticed  over  the  street,  in  a  clear  sky 
fast  deepening  to  indigo,  the  thinnest  slip  of  a  new 


AUTUMN  275 

moon,  like  a  bright  swallow,  with  wings  bent  back, 
flying  towards  the  ground.  That  meant — fine 
weather!  If  it  could  only  be  fine  weather  in  his 
heart!  And  in  order  that  the  azalea  might  arrive 
first,  he  walked  up  and  down  the  Square  which  he 
and  Oliver  had  patrolled  the  night  before. 

When  he  went  in,  Sylvia  was  just  placing  the 
white  azalea  in  the  window  of  the  drawing-room; 
and  stealing  up  behind  her  he  clasped  the  little 
necklet  round  her  throat.  She  turned  round  and 
clung  to  him.  He  could  feel  that  she  was  greatly 
moved.  And  remorse  stirred  and  stirred  in  him 
that  he  was  betraying  her  with  his  kiss. 

But,  even  while  he  kissed  her,  he  was  hardening 
his  heart. 

XI 

Next  day,  still  following  the  lead  of  her  words 
aibout  fresh  air  and  his  tired  look,  he  told  her  that 
he  was  going  to  ride,  and  did  not  say  with  whom. 
After  applauding  his  resolution,  she  was  silent  for  a 
little — then  asked : 

"Why  don't  you  ride  with  Nell?" 

He  had  already  so  lost  his  dignity,  that  he  hardly 
felt  disgraced  in  answering: 

"It  might  bore  her!" 

"Oh,  no;  it  wouldn't  bore  her." 

Had  she  meant  an}'thing  by  that?  And  feeling  as 
if  he  were  fencing  with  his  own  soul,  he  said: 

"Very  well,  I  will." 


276  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

He  had  perceived  suddenly  that  he  did  not  know 
his  wife,  having  always  till  now  beheved  that  it  was 
she  who  did  not  quite  know  him. 

If  she  had  not  been  out  at  lunch-time,  he  would 
have  lunched  out  himself — afraid  of  his  own  face. 
For  feverishness  in  sick  persons  mounts  steadily 
with  the  approach  of  a  certain  hour.  And  surely 
his  face,  to  anyone  who  could  have  seen  him  being 
conveyed  to  Piccadilly,  would  have  suggested  a  fe- 
vered invalid  rather  than  a  healthy,  middle-aged 
sculptor  in  a  cab. 

The  horses  were  before  the  door — the  little  mag- 
pie horse,  and  a  thoroughbred  bay  mare,  weeded 
from  Dromore's  racing  stable.  Nell,  too,  was  stand- 
ing ready,  her  cheeks  very  pink,  and  her  eyes  very 
bright.  She  did  not  wait  for  him  to  mount  her,  but 
took  the  aid  of  the  confidential  man.  What  was  it 
that  made  her  look  so  perfect  on  that  little  horse — 
shape  of  lim.b,  or  something  soft  and  fiery  in  her 
spirit  that  the  little  creature  knew  of  ? 

They  started  in  silence,  but  as  soon  as  the  sound 
of  hoofs  died  on  the  tan  of  Rotten  Row,  she  turned 
to  him. 

"It  was  lovely  of  you  to  come!  I  thought  you'd 
be  afraid — you  are  afraid  of  me." 

And  Lennan  thought:  You're  right! 

"But  please  don't  look  like  yesterday.  To-day's 
too  heavenly.     Oh!  I  love  beautiful  days,  and  I  love 

riding,  and "     She  broke  off  and  looked  at  him. 

'Why  can't  you  just  be  nice  to  me' — she  seemed  to 
be  saying — 'and  love  me  as  you  ought!'    That  was 


AUTUMN  277 

her  power — the  conviction  that  he  did,  and  ought 
to  love  her;  that  she  ought  to  and  did  love  him. 
How  simple! 

But  riding,  too,  is  a  simple  passion;  and  simple 
passions  distract  each  other.  It  was  a  treat  to  be 
on  that  bay  mare.  Who  so  to  be  trusted  to  ride 
the  best  as  Johnny  Dromore? 

At  the  far  end  of  the  Row  she  cried  out:  "Let's 
go  on  to  Richmond  now,"  and  trotted  off  into  the 
road,  as  if  she  knew  she  could  do  with  him  what 
she  wished.  And,  following  meekly,  he  asked  him- 
self: Why?  What  was  there  in  her  to  make  up  to 
him  for  all  that  he  was  losing — his  power  of  work, 
his  dignity,  his  self-respect?  What  was  there? 
Just  those  eyes,  and  lips,  and  hair? 

And  as  if  she  knew  what  he  was  thinking,  she 
looked  round  and  smiled. 

So  they  jogged  on  over  the  Bridge  and  across 
Barnes  Common  into  Richmond  Park. 

But  the  moment  they  touched  turf,  with  one 
look  back  at  him,  she  was  off.  Had  she  all  the  time 
meant  to  give  him  this  breakneck  chase — or  had  the 
lovehness  of  that  Autumn  day  gone  to  her  head — 
blue  sky  and  coppery  flames  of  bracken  in  the  sun, 
and  the  beech  leaves  and  the  oak  leaves;  pure 
Highland  colouring  come  South  for  once. 

When  in  the  first  burst  he  had  tested  the  mare's 
wind,  this  chase  of  her,  indeed,  was  sheer  delight. 
Through  glades,  over  fallen  tree-trunks,  in  bracken 
up  to  the  hocks,  out  across  the  open,  past  a  herd 
of  amazed  and  solemn  deer,  over  rotten  ground  all 


278  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

rabbit-burrows,  till  just  as  he  thought  he  was  up 
to  her,  she  slipped  away  by  a  quick  turn  round 
trees.  Mischief  incarnate,  but  something  deeper 
than  mischief,  too!  He  came  up  with  her  at  last, 
and  leaned  over  to  seize  her  rein.  With  a  cut  of 
her  whip  that  missed  his  hand  by  a  bare  inch,  and 
a  wrench,  she  made  him  shoot  past,  wheeled  in  her 
tracks,  and  was  off  again  like  an  arrow,  back  amongst 
the  trees — lying  right  forward  under  the  boughs, 
along  the  neck  of  her  little  horse.  Then  out  from 
amongst  the  trees  she  shot  downhill.  Right  down 
she  went,  full  tilt,  and  after  her  went  Lennan,  lying 
back,  and  expecting  the  bay  mare  to  come  down  at 
every  stride.  This  was  her  idea  of  fun!  She 
switched  round  at  the  bottom  and  went  galloping 
along  the  foot  of  the  hill;  and  he  thought:  Now 
I've  got  her!  She  could  not  break  back  up  that 
hill,  and  there  was  no  other  cover  for  fully  half  a 
mile. 

Then  he  saw,  not  thirty  yards  in  front,  an  old 
sandpit;  and  Great  God!  she  was  going  straight 
at  it!  And  shouting  frantically,  he  reined  his  mare 
outwards.  But  she  only  raised  her  whip,  cut  the 
magpie  horse  over  the  flank,  and  rode  right  on.  He 
saw  that  little  demon  gather  its  feet  and  spring — ■ 
down,  down,  saw  him  pitch,  struggle,  sink — and  she, 
flung  forward,  roll  over  and  lie  on  her  back.  He 
felt  nothing  at  the  moment,  only  had  that  fixed  vi- 
sion of  a  yellow  patch  of  sand,  the  blue  sky,  a  rook 
flying,  and  her  face  upturned.  But  when  he  came 
on  her  she  was  on  her  feet,  holding  the  bridle  of  her 


AUTUMN  279 

dazed  horse.  No  sooner  did  he  touch  her,  than  she 
sank  down.  Her  eyes  were  closed,  but  he  could 
feel  that  she  had  not  fainted;  and  he  just  held  her, 
and  kept  pressing  his  lips  to  her  eyes  and  forehead. 
Suddenly  she  let  her  head  fall  back,  and  her  lips 
met  his.  Then  opening  her  eyes,  she  said:  "I'm 
not  hurt,  only — funny.     Has  Magpie  cut  his  knees?  " 

Not  quite  knowing  what  he  did,  he  got  up  to 
look.  The  little  horse  was  cropping  at  some  grass, 
unharmed — the  sand  and  fern  had  saved  his  knees. 
And  the  languid  voice  behind  him  said:  "It's  all 
right — you  can  leave  the  horses.  They'll  come  when 
I  call." 

Now  that  he  knew  she  was  unhurt,  he  felt  angry. 
Why  had  she  behaved  in  this  mad  way — given  him 
this  fearful  shock?  But  in  that  same  languid  voice 
she  went  on:  "Don't  be  cross  with  me.  I  thought 
at  first  I'd  pull  up,  but  then  I  thought:   'If  I  jump 

he  can't  help  being  nice' — so  I  did Don't  leave 

off  loving  me  because  I'm  not  hurt,  please." 

Terribly  moved,  he  sat  down  beside  her,  took  her 
hands  in  his,  and  said: 

"Nell!  Nell!  it's  all  wrong— it's  madness!" 

"Why?  Don't  think  about  it!  I  don't  want  you 
to  think — only  to  love  me." 

"My  child,  you  don't  know  what  love  is!" 

For  answer  she  only  flung  her  arms  round  his 
neck;  then,  since  he  held  back  from  kissing  her,  let 
them  fall  again,  and  jumped  up. 

"Very  well.  But  I  love  you.  You  can  think  of 
that — you  can't  prevent  me!"     And  without  waiting 


28o  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

for  help,  she  mounted  the  magpie  horse  from  the 
sand-heap  where  they  had  fallen. 

Very  sober  that  ride  home!  The  horses,  as  if 
ashamed  of  their  mad  chase,  were  edging  close  to 
each  other,  so  that  now  and  then  his  arm  would 
touch  her  shoulder.  He  asked  her  once  what  she 
had  felt  while  she  was  jumping. 

''Only  to  be  sure  my  foot  was  free.  It  was  rather 
horrid  coming  down,  thinking  of  Magpie's  knees"; 
and  touching  the  little  horse's  goat-like  ears,  she 
added  softly :  ' '  Poor  dear !   He'll  be  stiff  to-morrow. ' ' 

She  was  again  only  the  confiding,  rather  drowsy, 
child.  Or  was  it  that  the  fierceness  of  those  past 
moments  had  killed  his  power  of  feehng?  An  al- 
most dreamy  hour — with  the  sun  going  down,  the 
lamps  being  lighted  one  by  one — and  a  sort  of  sweet 
oblivion  over  everything! 

At  the  door,  where  the  groom  was  waiting,  Len- 
nan  would  have  said  good-bye,  but  she  whispered: 
"Oh,  no,  please!  I  am  tired  now — you  might  help 
me  up  a  little." 

And  so,  half  carrying  her,  he  mounted  past  the 
Vanity  Fair  cartoons,  and  through  the  corridor  with 
the  red  paper  and  the  Van  Beers'  drawings,  into  the 
room  where  he  had  first  seen  her. 

Once  settled  back  in  Dromore's  great  chair,  with 
the  purring  kitten  curled  up  on  her  neck,  she  mur- 
mured : 

"Isn't  it  nice?  You  can  make  tea;  and  we'll 
Jiave  hot  buttered  toast." 

And  so  Lennan  stayed,  while  the  confidential 


AUTUMN  281 

man  brought  tea  and  toast;  and,  never  once  look- 
ing at  them,  seemed  to  know  all  that  had  passed, 
all  that  might  be  to  come. 

Then  they  were  alone  again,  and,  gazing  down 
at  her  stretched  out  in  that  great  chair,  Lennan 
thought : 

"Thank  God  that  I'm  tired  too — body  and  soul!" 

But  suddenly  she  looked  up  at  him,  and  pointing 
to  the  picture  that  to-day  had  no  curtain  drawn, 
said: 

"Do  you  think  I'm  Uke  her?  I  made  Oliver  tell 
me  about — myself  this  summer.  That's  why  you 
needn't  bother.  It  doesn't  matter  what  happens 
to  me,  you  see.  And  I  don't  care — because  you  can 
love  me,  without  feeling  bad  about  it.  And  you 
will,  won't  you?" 

Then,  with  her  eyes  still  on  his  face,  she  went  on 
quickly : 

"Only  we  won't  talk  about  that  now,  will  we? 
It's  too  cosy.     I  aw  nice  and  tired.     Do  smoke!" 

But  Lennan's  fingers  trembled  so  that  he  could 
hardly  light  that  cigarette.  And,  watching  them, 
she  said:  "Please  give  me  one.  Dad  doesn't  like 
my  smoking." 

The  virtue  of  Johnny  Dromore!  Yes!  It  would 
always  be  by  proxy!    And  he  muttered: 

"How  do  you  think  he  would  like  to  know  about 
this  afternoon,  Nell?" 

"I  don't  care."  Then  peering  up  through  the  kit- 
ten's fur  she  murmured:  "Oliver  wants  me  to  go  to 
a  dance  on  Saturday — it's  for  a  charity.     Shall  I?" 


282  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

"Of  course;  why  not?" 

"Will  you  come?" 

"I?" 

"Oh,  do!  You  must!  It's  my  very  first,  you 
know.    I've  got  an  extra  ticket." 

And  against  his  will,  his  judgment — everything, 
Lennan  answered:   "Yes." 

She  clapped  her  hands,  and  the  kitten  crawled 
down  to  her  knees. 

When  he  got  up  to  go,  she  did  not  move,  but 
just  looked  up  at  him;  and  how  he  got  away  he 
did  not  know. 

Stopping  his  cab  a  httle  short  of  home,  he  ran, 
for  he  felt  cold  and  stiff,  and  letting  himself  in  with 
his  latch-key,  went  straight  to  the  drawing-room. 
The  door  was  ajar,  and  Sylvia  standing  at  the  win- 
dow. He  heard  her  sigh;  and  his  heart  smote  him. 
Very  still,  and  slender,  and  lonely  she  looked  out 
there,  with  the  Hght  shining  on  her  fair  hair  so  that 
it  seemed  almost  white.  Then  she  turned  and  saw 
him.  He  noticed  her  throat  working  with  the  ef- 
fort she  made  not  to  show  him  anything,  and  he 
said: 

"Surely  you  haven't  been  anxious!  Nell  had  a 
bit  of  a  fall — jumping  into  a  sandpit.  She's  quite 
mad  sometimes.  I  stayed  to  tea  with  her — just  to 
make  sure  she  wasn't  really  hurt."  But  as  he  spoke 
he  loathed  himself;   his  voice  sounded  so  false. 

She  only  answered:  "It's  all  right,  dear,"  but  he 
saw  that  she  kept  her  eyes — those  blue,  too  true 
eyes — averted,  even  when  she  kissed  him. 


AUTUMN  283 

And  so  began  another  evening  and  night  and 
morning  of  fever,  subterfuge,  wariness,  aching.  A 
round  of  half-ecstatic  torment,  out  of  which  he 
seemed  no  more  able  to  break  than  a  man  can 
break  through  the  walls  of  a  cell.  .  .  . 

Though  it  live  but  a  day  in  the  sun,  though  it 
drown  in  tenebrous  night,  the  dark  flower  of  pas- 
sion will  have  its  hour.  .  .  . 

XII 

To  deceive  undoubtedly  requires  a  course  of  train- 
ing. And,  unversed  in  this  art,  Lennan  was  fast 
finding  it  intolerable  to  scheme  and  watch  himself, 
and  mislead  one  who  had  looked  up  to  him  ever 
since  they  were  children.  Yet,  all  the  time,  he  had 
a  feeling  that,  since  he  alone  knew  all  the  circum- 
stances of  his  case,  he  alone  was  entitled  to  blame 
or  to  excuse  himself.  The  glib  judgments  that  mor- 
alists would  pass  upon  his  conduct  could  be  nothing 
but  the  imbecihties  of  smug  and  pharisaic  fools — of 
those  not  under  this  drugging  spell — of  such  as  had 
not  blood  enough,  perhaps,  ever  to  fall  beneath  it! 

The  day  after  the  ride  Nell  had  not  come,  and  he 
had  no  word  from  her.  Was  she,  then,  hurt,  after 
all?  She  had  lain  back  very  inertly  in  that  chair! 
And  Sylvia  never  asked  if  he  knew  how  the  girl  was 
after  her  fall,  nor  offered  to  send  round  to  inquire. 
Did  she  not  wish  to  speak  of  her,  or  had  she  simply 
— not  believed?  When  there  was  so  much  he  could 
not  talk  of  it  seemed  hard  that  just  what  happened 


284  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

to  be  true  should  be  distrusted.  She  had  not  yet, 
indeed,  by  a  single  word  suggested  that  she  felt  he 
was  deceiving  her,  but  at  heart  he  knew  that  she 
was  not  deceived.  .  .  .  Those  feelers  of  a  woman 
who  loves — can  anything  check  their  deUcate  appre- 
hension? .  .  . 

Towards  evening,  the  longing  to  see  the  girl — a 
sensation  as  if  she  were  calling  him  to  come  to  her 
— became  almost  insupportable;  yet,  whatever  ex- 
cuse he  gave,  he  felt  that  Sylvia  would  know  where 
he  was  going.  He  sat  on  one  side  of  the  fire,  she 
on  the  other,  and  they  both  read  books;  the  only 
strange  thing  about  their  reading  was,  that  neither 
of  them  ever  turned  a  leaf.  It  was  'Don  Quixote' 
he  read,  the  page  which  had  these  words:  "Let  Al- 
tisidora  weep  or  sing,  still  I  am  Dulcinea's  and  hers 
alone,  dead  or  alive,  dutiful  and  unchanged,  in  spite 
of  all  the  necromantic  powers  in  the  world."  And 
so  the  evening  passed.  When  she  went  up  to  bed, 
he  was  very  near  to  stealing  out,  driving  up  to  the 
Dromores'  door,  and  inquiring  of  the  confidential 
man;  but  the  thought  of  the  confounded  fellow's 
eyes  was  too  much  for  him,  and  he  held  out.  He 
took  up  Sylvia's  book,  De  Maupassant's  'Fort 
comme  la  mort' — open  at  the  page  where  the  poor 
woman  finds  that  her  lover  has  passed  away  from 
her  to  her  own  daughter.  And  as  he  read,  the  tears 
rolled  down  his  cheek.  SyKia!  Sylvia!  Were  not 
his  old  favourite  words  from  that  old  favourite  book 
still  true?  "Dulcinea  del  Toboso  is  the  most  beau- 
tiful woman  in  the  world,  and  I  the  most  unfortu- 


AUTUMN  285 

nate  knight  upon  the  earth.  It  were  unjust  that  such 
perfection  should  suffer  through  my  weakness.  No, 
pierce  my  body  with  your  lance,  knight,  and  let  my 
life  expire  with  my  honour.  ..."  Why  could  he 
not  wrench  this  feehng  from  his  heart,  banish  this 
girl  from  his  eyes?  Why  could  he  not  be  wholly 
true  to  her  who  was  and  always  had  been  wholly 
true  to  him?  Horrible — this  will-less,  nerveless  feel- 
ing, this  paralysis,  as  if  he  were  a  puppet  moved  by 
a  cruel  hand.  And,  as  once  before,  it  seemed  to 
him  that  the  girl  was  sitting  there  in  Sylvia's  chair 
in  her  dark  red  frock,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  him. 
Uncannily  vivid — that  impression!  ...  A  man 
could  not  go  on  long  with  his  head  in  Chancery  like 
this,  without  becoming  crazed ! 

It  was  growing  dusk  on  Saturday  afternoon  when 
he  gave  up  that  intolerable  waiting  and  opened  the 
studio  door  to  go  to  Nell.  It  was  now  just  two  days 
since  he  had  seen  or  heard  of  her.  She  had  spoken 
of  a  dance  for  that  very  night — of  his  going  to  it. 
She  must  be  ill! 

But  he  had  not  taken  six  steps  when  he  saw  her 
coming.  She  had  on  a  grey  furry  scarf,  hiding  her 
mouth,  making  her  look  much  older.  The  moment 
the  door  was  shut  she  threw  it  off,  went  to  the 
hearth,  drew  up  a  little  stool,  and,  holding  her  hands 
out  to  the  fire,  said: 

"  Have  you  thought  about  me?  Have  you  thought 
enough  now?" 

And  he  answered:  "Yes,  I've  thought,  but  I'm 
no  nearer." 


286  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

"Why?  Nobody  need  ever  know  you  love  me. 
And  if  they  did,  I  wouldn't  care." 

Simple!    How  simple!     Glorious,  egoistic  youth! 

He  could  not  speak  of  Sylvia  to  this  child — speak 
of  his  married  Hfe,  hitherto  so  dignified,  so  almost 
sacred.  It  was  impossible.  Then  he  heard  her 
say: 

"It  can't  be  wrong  to  love  you!  I  don't  care  if  it 
is  wrong,"  and  saw  her  lips  quivering,  and  her  eyes 
suddenly  piteous  and  scared,  as  if  for  the  first  time 
she  doubted  of  the  issue.  Here  was  fresh  torment! 
To  watch  an  unhappy  child.  And  what  was  the  use 
of  even  trying  to  make  clear  to  her — on  the  very 
threshold  of  life — the  hopeless  maze  that  he  was 
wandering  in!  What  chance  of  making  her  under- 
stand the  marsh  of  mud  and  tangled  weeds  he  must 
drag  through  to  reach  her.  "Nobody  need  know." 
So  simple!  What  of  his  heart  and  his  wife's  heart? 
And,  pointing  to  his  new  work — the  first  man  be- 
witched by  the  first  nymph — he  said: 

"Look  at  this,  Nell!  That  nymph  is  you;  and 
this  man  is  me."  She  got  up,  and  came  to  look. 
And  while  she  was  gazing  he  greedily  drank  her  in. 
What  a  strange  mixture  of  innocence  and  sorcery! 
What  a  wonderful  young  creature  to  bring  to  full 
knowledge  of  love  within  his  arms!  And  he  said: 
"You  had  better  understand  what  you  are  to  me — 
all  that  I  shall  never  know  again;  there  it  is  in  that 
nymph's  face.  Oh,  no!  not  your  face.  And  there 
am  I  struggling  through  slime  to  reach  you — not 
my  face,  of  course." 


AUTUMN  287 

She  said:  "Poor  face!"  then  covered  her  own. 
Was  she  going  to  cry,  and  torture  him  still  more? 
But,  instead,  she  only  murmured:  "But  you  have 
reached  me!"  swayed  towards  him,  and  put  her  lips 
to  his. 

He  gave  way  then.  From  that  too  stormy  kiss 
of  his  she  drew  back  for  a  second,  then,  as  if  afraid 
of  her  own  recoil,  snuggled  close  again.  But  the 
instinctive  shrinking  of  innocence  had  been  enough 
for  Lennan — he  dropped  his  arms  and  said: 

"You  must  go,  child." 

Without  a  word  she  picked  up  her  fur,  put  it  on, 
and  stood  waiting  for  him  to  speak.  Then,  as  he 
did  not,  she  held  out  something  white.  It  was  the 
card  for  the  dance. 

"You  said  you  were  coming?" 

And  he  nodded.  Her  eyes  and  lips  smiled  at 
him;  she  opened  the  door,  and,  still  with  that  slow, 
happy  smile,  went  out.  .  .  . 

Yes,  he  would  be  coming;  wherever  she  was, 
whenever  she  wanted  him!  .  .  . 

His  blood  on  fire,  heedless  of  everything  but  to 
rush  after  happiness,  Lennan  spent  those  hours 
before  the  dance.  He  had  told  Sylvia  that  he  would 
be  dining  at  his  Club — a  set  of  rooms  owned  by  a 
small  coterie  of  artists  in  Chelsea.  He  had  taken 
this  precaution,  feehng  that  he  could  not  sit  through 
dinner  opposite  her  and  then  go  out  to  that  dance 
— and  Nell!  He  had  spoken  of  a  guest  at  the  Club, 
to  account  for  evening  dress — another  lie,  but  what 
did  it  matter?    He  was  lying  all  the  time,  if  not  in 


288  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

words,  in  action — must  lie,  indeed,  to  save  her 
suffering ! 

He  stopped  at  the  Frenchwoman's  flower  shop. 

"Que  desirez-vous,  monsieur?  Des  ceillets  rouges — ■ 
fen  ai  de  bien  beaux,  ce  soir^ 

Des  ceillets  rouges?  Yes,  those  to-night!  To  this 
address.     No  green  with  them;  no  card! 

How  strange  the  feeling — with  the  die  once  cast 
for  love — of  rushing,  of  watching  his  own  self  being 
left  behind! 

In  the  Brompton  Road,  outside  a  little  restaurant, 
a  thin  musician  was  playing  on  a  violin.  Ah!  and 
he  knew  this  place;  he  would  go  in  there,  not  to  the 
Club — and  the  fiddler  should  have  all  he  had  to 
spare,  for  playing  those  tunes  of  love.  He  turned 
in.  He  had  not  been  there  since  the  day  before 
that  night  on  the  river,  twenty  years  ago.  Never 
since;  and  yet  it  was  not  changed.  The  same  tar- 
nished gilt,  and  smell  of  cooking;  the  same  macaroni 
in  the  same  tomato  sauce;  the  same  Chianti  flasks; 
the  same  staring,  light-blue  walls  wreathed  with 
pink  flowers.  Only  the  waiter  different — hollow- 
cheeked,  patient,  dark  of  eye.  He,  too,  should  be 
well  tipped!  And  that  poor,  over-hatted  lady,  eat- 
ing her  frugal  meal — to  her,  at  all  events,  a  look  of 
kindness.  For  all  desperate  creatures  he  must  feel, 
this  desperate  night!  And  suddenly  he  thought  of 
Oliver.  Another  desperate  one!  What  should  he 
say  to  OHver  at  this  dance — he,  aged  forty-seven, 
coming  there  without  his  wife!  Some  imbecility, 
such  as:   'Watching  the  human  form  divine  in  mo- 


AUTUMN  289 

tion,'  'Catching  sidelights  on  Nell  for  the  statuette' 
— some  cant;  it  did  not  matter!  The  wine  was 
drawn,  and  he  must  drink! 

It  was  still  early  when  he  left  the  restaurant — a 
dry  night,  very  calm,  not  cold.  When  had  he 
danced  last?  With  Olive  Cramier,  before  he  knew 
he  loved  her.  Well,  that  memory  could  not  be 
broken,  for  he  would  not  dance  to-night!  Just 
watch,  sit  with  the  girl  a  few  minutes,  feel  her  hand 
cling  to  his,  see  her  eyes  turned  back  to  him;  and 
— come  away!  And  then — the  future!  For  the 
wine  was  drawn!  The  leaf  of  a  plane-tree,  flutter- 
ing down,  caught  on  his  sleeve.  Autumn  would 
soon  be  gone,  and  after  Autumn — only  Winter! 
She  would  have  done  with  him  long  before  he  came 
to  Winter.  Nature  would  see  to  it  that  Youth 
called  for  her,  and  carried  her  away.  Nature  in 
her  courses!  But  just  to  cheat  Nature  for  a  little 
while!     To  cheat  Nature — what  greater  happiness! 

Here  was  the  place  with  red-striped  awning,  car- 
riages driving  away,  loiterers  watching.  He  turned 
in  with  a  beating  heart.  Was  he  before  her?  How 
would  she  come  to  this  first  dance?  With  Oliver 
alone?  Or  had  some  chaperon  been  found?  To 
have  come  because  she — this  child  so  lovely,  born 
'outside' — might  have  need  of  chaperonage,  would 
have  been  some  comfort  to  dignity,  so  wistful,  so 
lost  as  his.  But,  alas!  he  knew  he  was  only  there 
because  he  could  not  keep  away! 

Already  they  were  dancing  in  the  hall  upstairs; 
but  not  she,  yet;   and  he  stood  leaning  against  the 


290  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

wall  where  she  must  pass.  Lonely  and  out  of  place 
he  felt;  as  if  everyone  must  know  why  he  was  there. 
People  stared,  and  he  heard  a  girl  ask:  "Who's  that 
against  the  wall  with  the  hair  and  dark  moustache?" 
— and  her  partner  murmuring  his  answer,  and  her 
voice  again:  "Yes,  he  looks  as  if  he  were  seeing 
sand  and  lions."  For  whom,  then,  did  they  take 
him?  Thank  heaven!  They  were  all  the  usual  sort. 
There  would  be  no  one  that  he  knew.  Suppose 
Johnny  Dromore  himself  came  with  Nell!  He  was 
to  be  back  on  Saturday!  What  could  he  say,  then? 
How  meet  those  doubting,  knowing  eyes,  goggling 
with  the  fixed  philosophy  that  a  man  has  but  one 
use  for  woman?  God!  and  it  would  be  true!  For 
a  moment  he  was  on  the  point  of  getting  his  coat 
and  hat,  and  sneaking  away.  That  would  mean 
not  seeing  her  till  Monday;  and  he  stood  his  ground. 
But  after  to-night  there  must  be  no  more  such  risks 
— their  meetings  must  be  wisely  planned,  must  sink 
underground.  And  then  he  saw  her  at  the  foot  of 
the  stairs  in  a  dress  of  a  shell-pink  colour,  with  one 
of  his  flowers  in  her  light-brown  hair  and  the  others 
tied  to  the  handle  of  a  tiny  fan.  How  self-possessed 
she  looked,  as  if  this  were  indeed  her  native  element 
— her  neck  and  arms  bare,  her  cheeks  a  deep  soft 
pink,  her  eyes  quickly  turning  here  and  there.  She 
began  mounting  the  stairs,  and  saw  him.  Was  ever 
anything  so  lovely  as  she  looked  just  then?  Behind 
her  he  marked  Oliver,  and  a  tall  girl  with  red  hair, 
and  another  young  man.  He  moved  deliberately  to 
the  top  of  the  stairs  on  the  wall  side,  so  that  from 


AUTUMN  291 

behind  they  should  not  see  her  face  when  she  greeted 
him.  She  put  the  little  fan  with  the  flowers  to  her 
lips;  and,  holding  out  her  hand,  said,  quick  and 
low: 

"The  fourth,  it's  a  polka;  we'll  sit  out,  won't 
we?" 

Then  swaying  a  httle,  so  that  her  hair  and  the 
flower  in  it  almost  touched  his  face,  she  passed,  and 
there  in  her  stead  stood  Oliver. 

Lennan  had  expected  one  of  his  old  insolent  looks, 
but  the  young  man's  face  was  eager  and  quite 
friendly. 

"  It  was  awfully  good  of  you  to  come,  Mr.  Lennan. 
Is  Mrs.  Lennan " 

And  Lennan  murmured: 

"She  wasn't  able;  she's  not  quite "  and  could 

have  sunk  into  the  shining  floor.  Youth  with  its 
touching  confidence,  its  eager  trust!  This  was  the 
way  he  was  fulfilling  his  duty  towards  Youth! 

When  they  had  passed  into  the  ballroom  he  went 
back  to  his  position  against  the  wall.  They  were 
dancing  Number  Three;  his  time  of  waiting,  then, 
was  drawing  to  a  close.  From  where  he  stood  he 
could  not  see  the  dancers — no  use  to  watch  her  go 
roimd  in  someone  else's  arms. 

Not  a  true  waltz — some  French  or  Spanish  pave- 
ment song  played  in  waltz  time;  bizarre,  pathetic, 
whirling  after  its  own  happiness.  That  chase  for 
happiness!  Well,  life,  with  all  its  prizes  and  its  pos- 
sibilities, had  nothing  that  quite  satisfied — save 
just  the  fleeting  moments  of  passion!     Nothing  else 


292  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

quite  poignant  enough  to  be  called  pure  joy!  Or  so 
it  seemed  to  him. 

The  waltz  was  over.  He  could  see  her  now,  on 
a  rout  seat  against  the  wall  with  the  other  young 
man,  turning  her  eyes  constantly  as  if  to  make  sure 
that  he  was  still  standing  there.  What  subtle  fuel 
was  always  being  added  to  the  fire  by  that  flattery 
of  her  inexplicable  adoration — of  those  eyes  that 
dragged  him  to  her,  yet  humbly  followed  him,  too! 
Five  times  while  she  sat  there  he  saw  the  red-haired 
girl  or  Oliver  bring  men  up;  saw  youths  cast  long- 
ing glances;  saw  girls  watching  her  with  cold  ap- 
praisement, or  with  a  touching,  frank  delight.  From 
the  moment  that  she  came  in,  there  had  been,  in 
her  father's  phrase,  'only  one  in  it.'  And  she  could 
pass  all  this  by,  and  still  want  him.     Incredible! 

At  the  first  notes  of  the  polka  he  went  to  her. 
It  was  she  who  found  their  place  of  refuge — a  little 
alcove  behind  two  palm-plants.  But  sitting  there, 
he  realized,  as  never  before,  that  there  was  no  spir- 
itual communion  between  him  and  this  child.  She 
could  tell  him  her  troubles  or  her  joys;  he  could 
soothe  or  sympathize;  but  never  would  the  gap  be- 
tween their  natures  and  their  ages  be  crossed.  Flis 
happiness  was  only  in  the  sight  and  touch  of  her. 
But  that,  God  knew,  was  happiness  enough — a  fe- 
verish, craving  joy,  like  an  overtired  man's  thirst, 
growing  with  the  drink  on  which  it  tries  to  slake 
itself.  Sitting  there,  in  the  scent  of  those  flowers 
and  of  some  sweet  essence  in  her  hair,  with  her  fingers 
touching  his,  and  her  eyes  seeking  his,  he  tried  loy- 


AUTUMN  293 

ally  not  to  think  of  himself,  to  grasp  her  sensations 
at  this  her  first  dance,  and  just  help  her  to  enjoy- 
ment. But  he  could  not — paralyzed,  made  drunk 
by  that  insensate  longing  to  take  her  in  his  arms 
and  crush  her  to  him  as  he  had  those  few  hours 
back.  He  could  see  her  expanding  like  a  flower,  in 
all  this  light,  and  motion,  and  intoxicating  admira- 
tion round  her.  What  business  had  he  in  her  life, 
with  his  dark  hunger  after  secret  hours;  he — a  coin 
worn  thin  already — a  destroyer  of  the  freshness  and 
the  glamour  of  her  youth  and  beauty! 

Then,  holding  up  the  flowers,  she  said: 

''Did  you  give  me  these  because  of  the  one  I  gave 
you?" 

"Yes." 

''What  did  you  do  with  that?" 

''Burned  it." 

"Oh!  but  why?" 

"Because  you  are  a  witch — and  witches  must  be 
burned  with  all  their  flowers." 

"Are  you  going  to  burn  me?" 

He  put  his  hand  on  her  cool  arm. 

"Feel!    The  flames  are  lighted." 

"You  may!    I  don't  care!" 

She  took  his  hand  and  laid  her  cheek  against  it; 
yet,  to  the  music,  which  had  begun  again,  the  tip 
of  her  shoe  was  already  beating  time.     And  he  said: 

"You  ought  to  be  dancing,  child." 

"Oh,  no!     Only  it's  a  pity  you  don't  want  to." 

"Yes!  Do  you  understand  that  it  must  all  be 
secret — underground?  " 


294  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

She  covered  his  Hps  with  the  fan,  and  said: 
"You're  not  to  think;  you're  not  to  think — never! 
When  can  I  come?" 

"  I  must  find  the  best  way.  Not  to-morrow.  No- 
body must  know,  Nell — for  your  sake — for  hers — 
nobody!" 

She  nodded,  and  repeated  with  a  soft,  mysterious 
wisdom:  "Nobody."  And  then,  aloud:  "Here's 
OHver !  It  was  awfully  good  of  you  to  come.  Good- 
night!" 

And  as,  on  Oliver's  arm,  she  left  their  Uttle  refuge, 
she  looked  back. 

He  lingered — to  watch  her  through  this  one  dance. 
How  they  made  all  the  other  couples  sink  into  insig- 
nificance, with  that  something  in  them  both  that 
was  better  than  mere  good  looks — that  something 
not  outre  or  eccentric,  but  poignant,  wayward.  They 
went  well  together,  those  two  Dromores — his  dark 
head  and  her  fair  head;  his  clear,  brown,  daring 
eyes,  and  her  grey,  languorous,  mesmeric  eyes.  Ah! 
Master  OHver  was  happy  now,  with  her  so  close  to 
him!  It  was  not  jealousy  that  Lennan  felt.  Not 
quite — one  did  not  feel  jealous  of  the  young;  some- 
thing very  deep — pride,  sense  of  proportion,  who 
knew  what — prevented  that.  She,  too,  looked 
happy,  as  if  her  soul  were  dancing,  vibrating  with 
the  music  and  the  scent  of  the  flowers.  He  waited 
for  her  to  come  round  once  more,  to  get  for  a  last 
time  that  flying  glance  turned  back;  then  found 
his  coat  and  hat  and  went. 


AUTUMN  29s 


XIII 


Outside,  he  walked  a  few  steps,  then  stood  look- 
ing back  at  the  windows  of  the  hall  through  some 
trees,  the  shadows  of  whose  trunks,  in  the  light  of 
*a  street  lamp,  were  spilled  out  along  the  ground  like 
the  splines  of  a  fan.  A  church  clock  struck  eleven. 
For  hours  yet  she  would  be  there,  going  round  and 
round  in  the  arms  of  Youth!  Try  as  he  might  he 
could  never  recapture  for  himself  the  look  that 
Oliver's  face  had  worn — the  look  that  was  the  sym- 
bol of  so  much  more  than  he  himself  could  give  her. 
Why  had  she  come  into  his  life — to  her  undoing,  and 
his  own?  And  the  bizarre  thought  came  to  him: 
If  she  were  dead  should  I  really  care?  Should  I 
not  be  almost  glad?  If  she  were  dead  her  witchery 
would  be  dead,  and  I  could  stand  up  straight  again 
and  look  people  in  the  face!  What  was  this  power 
that  played  with  men,  darted  into  them,  twisted 
their  hearts  to  rags;  this  power  that  had  looked 
through  her  eyes  when  she  put  her  fan,  with  his 
flowers,  to  her  lips? 

The  thrumming  of  the  music  ceased;  he  walked 
away. 

It  must  have  been  nearly  twelve  when  he  reached 
home.  Now,  once  more,  would  begin  the  gruesome 
process  of  deception — flinching  of  soul,  and  brazen- 
ing of  visage.  It  would  be  better  when  the  whole 
thievish  business  was  irretrievably  begun  and  or- 
dered in  its  secret  courses! 


296  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

There  was  no  light  in  the  drawing-room,  save  just 
the  glow  of  the  fire.  If  only  Sylvia  might  have  gone 
to  bed!  Then  he  saw  her,  sitting  motionless  out 
there  by  the  uncurtained  window. 

He  went  over  to  her,  and  began  his  hateful  for- 
mula: 

"I'm  afraid  you've  been  lonely.  I  had  to  stay 
rather  late.  A  dull  evening."  And,  since  she  did 
not  move  or  answer,  but  just  sat  there  very  stiU  and 
white,  he  forced  himself  to  go  close,  bend  down  to 
her,  touch  her  cheek;  even  to  kneel  beside  her.  She 
looked  round  then;  her  face  was  quiet  enough,  but 
her  eyes  were  strangely  eager.  With  a  pitiful  little 
smile  she  broke  out: 

"Oh,  Mark!  What  is  it— what  is  it?  Anything 
is  better  than  this!" 

Perhaps  it  was  the  smile,  perhaps  her  voice  or 
eyes — but  something  gave  way  in  Lennan.  Secrecy, 
precaution  went  by  the  board.  Bowing  his  head 
against  her  breast,  he  poured  it  all  out,  while  they 
clung,  clutched  together  in  the  half  dark  hke  two 
frightened  children.  Only  when  he  had  finished  did 
he  reahze  that  if  she  had  pushed  him  away,  refused 
to  let  him  touch  her,  it  would  have  been  far  less  pit- 
eous, far  easier  to  bear,  than  her  wan  face  and  her 
hands   clutching   him,   and    her   words:   "I  never 

thought — you  and  I — oh!  Mark — you  and  I '* 

The  trust  in  their  Hfe  together,  in  himself,  that  those 
words  revealed!  Yet,  not  greater  than  he  had  had 
— still  had!  She  could  not  understand — he  had 
known  that  she  could  never  understand;    it  was  why 


AUTUMN  297 

he  had  fought  so  for  secrecy,  all  through.  She  was 
taking  it  as  if  she  had  lost  everything;  and  in  his 
mind  she  had  lost  nothing.  This  passion,  this  cra- 
ving for  Youth  and  Life,  this  madness — call  it  what 
one  would — was  something  quite  apart,  not  touch- 
ing his  love  and  need  of  her.  If  she  would  only  be- 
lieve that!  Over  and  over  he  repeated  it;  over  and 
over  again  perceived  that  she  could  not  take  it  in. 
The  only  thing  she  saw  was  that  his  love  had  gone 
from  her  to  another — though  that  was  not  true! 
Suddenly  she  broke  out  of  his  arms,  pushing  him 
from  her,  and  cried:  "That  girl — hateful,  horrible, 
false!"  Never  had  he  seen  her  look  like  this,  with 
flaming  spots  in  her  white  cheeks,  soft  lips  and  chin 
distorted,  blue  eyes  flaming,  breast  heaving,  as  if 
each  breath  were  drawn  from  lungs  that  received 
no  air.  And  then,  as  quickly,  the  fire  went  out  of 
her;  she  sank  down  on  the  sofa,  covering  her  face 
with  her  arms,  rocking  to  and  fro.  She  did  not  cry, 
but  a  little  moan  came  from  her  now  and  then. 
And  each  one  of  those  sounds  was  to  Lennan  like 
the  cry  of  something  he  was  murdering.  At  last  he 
went  and  sat  down  on  the  sofa  by  her  and  said: 

^' Sylvia!  Sylvia!  Don't!  oh!  don't!"  And  she 
was  silent,  ceasing  to  rock  herself;  letting  him 
smooth  and  stroke  her.  But  her  face  she  kept  hid- 
den, and  only  once  she  spoke,  so  low  that  he  could 
hardly  hear:  "I  can't — I  won't  keep  you  from  her." 
And  with  the  awful  feeling  that  no  words  could  reach 
or  soothe  the  wound  in  that  tender  heart,  he  could 
only  go  on  stroking  and  kissing  her  hands. 


298  THE  DARK   FLOWER 

It  was  atrocious — horrible — this  that  he  had  done ! 
God  knew  that  he  had  not  sought  it — the  thing  had 
come  on  him.  Surely  even  in  her  misery  she  could 
see  that!  Deep  down  beneath  his  grief  and  self- 
hatred,  he  knew,  what  neither  she  nor  anyone  else 
could  know — that  he  could  not  have  prevented  this 
feeling,  which  went  back  to  days  before  he  ever  saw 
the  girl — that  no  man  could  have  stopped  that  feel- 
ing in  himself.  This  craving  and  roving  was  as 
much  part  of  him  as  his  eyes  and  hands,  as  over- 
whelming and  natural  a  longing  as  his  hunger  for 
work,  or  his  need  of  the  peace  that  Sylvia  gave, 
and  alone  could  give  him.  That  was  the  tragedy — 
it  was  all  sunk  and  rooted  in  the  very  nature  of  a 
man.  Since  the  girl  had  come  into  their  lives  he 
was  no  more  unfaithful  to  his  wife  in  thought  than 
he  had  been  before.  If  only  she  could  look  into  him, 
see  him  exactly  as  he  was,  as,  without  part  or  lot 
in  the  process,  he  had  been  made — then  she  would 
understand,  and  even  might  not  suffer;  but  she 
could  not,  and  he  could  never  make  it  plain.  And 
solemnly,  desperately,  with  a  weary  feeling  of  the 
futility  of  words,  he  went  on  trying:  Could  she  not 
see?  It  was  all  a  thing  outside  him — a  craving,  a 
chase  after  beauty  and  life,  after  his  own  youth! 
At  that  word  she  looked  at  him: 

"And  do  you  think  /  don't  want  my  youth  back?" 

He  stopped. 

For  a  woman  to  feel  that  her  beauty — the  bright- 
ness of  her  hair  and  eyes,  the  grace  and  suppleness 
of  her  Hmbs — were  slipping  from  her  and  from  the 


AUTUMN  299 

man  she  loved!  Was  there  anything  more  bitter? 
— or  any  more  sacred  duty  than  not  to  add  to  that 
bitterness,  not  to  push  her  with  suffering  into  old 
age,  but  to  help  keep  the  star  of  her  faith  in  her 
charm  intact! 

Man  and  woman — they  both  wanted  youth  again; 
she,  that  she  might  give  it  all  to  him;  he,  because 
it  would  help  him  towards  something — new!  Just 
that  world  of  difference! 

He  got  up,  and  said: 

"Come,  dear,  let's  try  and  sleep." 

He  had  not  once  said  that  he  could  give  it  up. 
The  words  would  not  pass  his  lips,  though  he  knew 
she  must  be  conscious  that  he  had  not  said  them, 
must  be  longing  to  hear  them.  All  he  had  been  able 
to  say  was: 

"So  long  as  you  want  me,  you  shall  never  lose 
me"  ....  and,  "I  will  never  keep  anything  from 
you  again." 

Up  in  their  room  she  lay  hour  after  hour  in  his 
arms,  quite  unresentful,  but  without  life  in  her,  and 
with  eyes  that,  when  his  lips  touched  them,  were 
always  wet. 

What  a  maze  was  a  man's  heart,  wherein  he  must 
lose  himself  every  minute!  What  involved  and  in- 
tricate turnings  and  turnings  on  itself;  what  fugi- 
tive replacement  of  emotion  by  emotion!  What 
strife  between  pities  and  passions;  what  longing  for 
peace ! 


And  in  his  feverish  exhaustion,  which  was  almost 
sleep,  Lennan  hardly  knew  whether  it  was  the  thrum 


300  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

of  music  or  Sylvia's  moaning  that  he  heard;  her 
body  or  Nell's  within  his  arms.  .  .  . 

But  life  had  to  be  lived,  a  face  preserved  against 
the  world,  engagements  kept.  And  the  nightmare 
went  on  for  both  of  them,  under  the  calm  surface 
of  an  ordinary  Sunday.  They  were  like  people  walk- 
ing at  the  edge  of  a  high  cliff,  not  knowing  from  step 
to  step  whether  they  would  fall;  or  like  swimmers 
struggling  for  issue  out  of  a  dark  whirlpool. 

In  the  afternoon  they  went  together  to  a  concert. 
it  was  just  something  to  do — something  that  saved 
them  for  an  hour  or  two  from  the  possibility  of 
speaking  on  the  one  subject  left  to  them.  The  ship 
had  gone  down,  and  they  were  clutching  at  any- 
thing that  for  a  moment  would  help  to  keep  them 
above  water. 

In  the  evening  some  people  came  to  supper;  a 
writer  and  two  painters,  with  their  wives.  A  grim 
evening — never  more  so  than  when  the  conversa- 
tion turned  on  that  perennial  theme — the  freedom, 
spiritual,  mental,  physical,  requisite  for  those  who 
practise  Art.  All  the  stale  arguments  were  brought 
forth,  and  had  to  be  joined  in  with  unmoved  faces. 
And  for  all  their  talk  of  freedom,  Lennan  could  see 
the  volte-face  his  friends  would  be  making,  if  they 
only  knew.  It  was  not  '  the  thing'  to  seduce  young 
girls — as  if,  forsooth,  there  were  freedom  in  doing 
only  what  people  thought  'the  thing'!  Their  cant 
about  the  free  artist  spirit  experiencing  everything, 
would  wither  the  moment  it  came  up  against  a  canon 
of  'good  form,'  so  that  in  truth  it  was  no  freer  than 


AUTUMN  301 

the  bourgeois  spirit,  with  its  conventions;  or  the 
priest  spirit,  with  its  cry  of  '  Sin ! '  No,  no !  To  re- 
sist— if  resistance  were  possible  to  this  dragging 
power — maxims  of  'good  form,'  dogmas  of  rehgion 
and  morahty,  were  no  help — nothing  was  any  help, 
but  some  feeling  stronger  than  passion  itself.  Syl- 
via's face,  forced  to  smile! — that,  indeed  was  a  reason 
why  they  should  condemn  him!  None  of  their  doc- 
trines about  freedom  could  explain  that  away — the 
harm,  the  death  that  came  to  a  man's  soul  when 
he  made  a  loving,  faithful  creature  suffer. 

But  they  were  gone  at  last — with  their  "Thanks 
so  much!"  and  their  ''Delightful  evening!" 

And  those  two  were  face  to  face  for  another 
night. 

He  knew  that  it  must  begin  all  over  again — inev- 
itable, after  the  stab  of  that  wretched  argument 
plunged  into  their  hearts  and  turned  and  turned 
all  the  evening. 

"I  won't,  I  mustn't  keep  you  starved,  and  spoil 
your  work.  Don't  think  of  me,  Mark!  I  can  bear 
it!" 

And  then  a  breakdown  worse  than  the  night  be- 
fore. What  genius,  what  sheer  genius  Nature  had 
for  torturing  her  creatures!  If  anyone  had  told 
him,  even  so  little  as  a  week  ago,  that  he  could  have 
caused  such  suffering  to  Sylvia — Sylvia,  whom  as  a 
child  with  wide  blue  eyes  and  a  blue  bow  on  her 
flaxen  head  he  had  guarded  across  fields  full  of  im- 
aginary bulls;  Sylvia,  in  whose  hair  his  star  had 
caught;  Sylvia,  who  day  and  night  for  fifteen  years 


302  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

had  been  his  devoted  wife;  whom  he  loved  and  still 
admired — he  would  have  given  him  the  lie  direct. 
It  would  have  seemed  incredible,  monstrous,  silly. 
Had  all  married  men  and  women  such  things  to  go 
through — was  this  but  a  very  usual  crossing  of  the 
desert?  Or  was  it,  once  for  all,  shipwreck?  death — 
unholy,  violent  death — in  a  storm  of  sand? 

Another  night  of  misery,  and  no  answer  to  that 
question  yet. 

He  had  told  her  that  he  would  not  see  Nell  again 
without  first  letting  her  know.  So,  when  morning 
came,  he  simply  wrote  the  words:  "Don't  come  to- 
day!"— showed  them  to  Sylvia,  and  sent  them  by 
a  servant  to  Dromore's. 

Hard  to  describe  the  bitterness  with  which  he 
entered  his  studio  that  morning.  In  all  this  chaos, 
what  of  his  work?  Could  he  ever  have  peace  of 
mind  for  it  again?  Those  people  last  night  had 
talked  of  'inspiration  of  passion,  of  experience.'  In 
pleading  with  her  he  had  used  the  words  himself. 
She — poor  soul! — had  but  repeated  them,  trying  to 
endure  them,  to  beheve  them  true.  And  were  they 
true?  Again  no  answer,  or  certainly  none  that  he 
could  give.  To  have  had  the  waters  broken  up; 
to  be  plunged  into  emotion;  to  feel  desperately,  in- 
stead of  stagnating — some  day  he  might  be  grateful 
— who  knew?  Some  day  there  might  be  fair  coun- 
try again  beyond  this  desert,  where  he  could  work 
even  better  than  before.  But  just  now,  as  well  ex- 
pect creative  work  from  a  condemned  man.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  he  was  equally  destroyed  whether 


AUTUMN  303 

he  gave  Nell  up,  and  with  her,  once  for  all,  that 
roving,  seeking  instinct,  which  ought,  forsooth,  to 
have  been  satisfied,  and  was  not;  or  whether  he 
took  Nell,  knowing  that  in  doing  so  he  was  tortur- 
ing a  woman  dear  to  him!  That  was  as  far  as  he 
could  see  to-day.  What  he  would  come  to  see  in 
time  God  only  knew !  But :  '  Freedom  of  the  Spirit ! ' 
That  was  a  phrase  of  bitter  irony  indeed!  And, 
there,  with  his  work  all  round  him,  like  a  man  tied 
hand  and  foot,  he  was  swept  by  such  a  feeling  of 
exasperated  rage  as  he  had  never  known.  Women! 
These  women!  Only  let  him  be  free  of  both,  of  all 
women,  and  the  passions  and  pities  they  aroused, 
so  that  his  brain  and  his  hands  might  live  and  work 
again!  They  should  not  strangle,  they  should  not 
destroy  him! 

Unfortunately,  even  in  his  rage,  he  knew  that 
flight  from  them  both  could  never  help  him.  One 
way  or  the  other  the  thing  would  have  to  be  fought 
through.  If  it  had  been  a  straight  fight  even;  a 
clear  issue  between  passion  and  pity!  But  both  he 
loved,  and  both  he  pitied.  There  was  nothing 
straight  and  clear  about  it  anywhere;  it  was  all  too 
deeply  rooted  in  full  human  nature.  And  the  ap- 
palling sense  of  rushing  ceaselessly  from  barrier  to 
barrier  began  really  to  affect  his  brain. 

True,  he  had  now  and  then  a  lucid  interval  of  a 
few  minutes,  when  the  ingenious  nature  of  his  own 
torments  struck  him  as  supremely  interesting  and 
queer;  but  this  was  not  precisely  a  relief,  for  it  only 
meant,  as  in  prolonged  toothache,  that  his  power 


304  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

of  feeling  had  for  a  moment  ceased.     A  very  pretty 
little  hell  indeed! 

All  day  he  had  the  premonition,  amounting  to 
certainty,  that  Nell  would  take  alarm  at  those  three 
words  he  had  sent  her,  and  come  in  spite  of  them. 
And  yet,  what  else  could  he  have  written?  Nothing 
save  what  must  have  alarmed  her  more,  or  plunged 
him  deeper.  He  had  the  feeling  that  she  could  fol- 
low his  moods,  that  her  eyes  could  see  him  every- 
where, as  a  cat's  eyes  can  see  in  darkness.  That 
feeling  had  been  with  him,  more  or  less,  ever  since 
the  last  evening  of  October,  the  evening  she  came 
back  from  her  summer — grown-up.  How  long  ago? 
Only  six  days — was  it  possible?  Ah,  yes!  She  knew 
when  her  spell  was  weakening,  when  the  current 
wanted,  as  it  were,  renewing.  And  about  six  o'clock 
— dusk  already — without  the  least  surprise,  with  only 
a  sort  of  empty  quivering,  he  heard  her  knock.  And 
just  behind  the  closed  door,  as  near  as  he  could  get 
to  her,  he  stood,  holding  his  breath.  He  had  given 
his  word  to  Sylvia — of  his  own  accord  had  given  it. 
Through  the  thin  wood  of  the  old  door  he  could 
hear  the  faint  shuffle  of  her  feet  on  the  pavement, 
moved  a  few  inches  this  way  and  that,  as  though 
supplicating  the  inexorable  silence.  He  seemed  to 
see  her  head,  bent  a  little  forward  hstening.  Three 
times  she  knocked,  and  each  time  Lennan  writhed. 
It  was  so  cruel!  With  that  seeing-sense  of  hers  she 
must  know  he  was  there;  his  very  silence  would  be 
telling  her — for  his  silence  had  its  voice,  its  pitiful 
breathless  sound.     Then,  quite  distinctly,  he  heard 


AUTUMN  305 

her  sigh,  and  her  footsteps  move  away;  and  cover- 
ing his  face  with  his  hands  he  rushed  to  and  fro  in 
the  studio,  hke  a  madman. 

No  sound  of  her  any  more!  Gone!  It  was  un- 
bearable; and,  seizing  his  hat,  he  ran  out.  Which 
way?  At  random  he  ran  towards  the  Square. 
There  she  was,  over  by  the  raiHngs;  languidly,  irres- 
olutely moving  towards  home. 


XIV 

But  now  that  she  was  within  reach,  he  wavered; 
he  had  given  his  word — was  he  going  to  break  it? 
Then  she  turned,  and  saw  him;  and  he  could  not 
go  back.  In  the  biting  easterly  wind  her  face  looked 
small,  and  pinched,  and  cold,  but  her  eyes  only  the 
larger,  the  more  full  of  witchery,  as  if  beseeching 
him  not  to  be  angry,  not  to  send  her  away. 

"I  had  to  come;  I  got  frightened.  Why  did  you 
write  such  a  tiny  httle  note?" 

He  tried  to  make  his  voice  sound  quiet  and  or- 
dinary. 

"You  must  be  brave,  Nell.  I  have  had  to  tell 
her." 

She  clutched  at  his  arm;  then  drew  herself  up, 
and  said  in  her  clear,  clipped  voice: 

"Oh!     I  suppose  she  hates  me,  then!" 

"She  is  terribly  unhappy." 

They  walked  a  minute,  that  might  have  been  an 
hour,  without  a  word;   not  round  the  Square,  as  he 


3c6  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

had  walked  with  Oliver,  but  away  from  the  house. 
At  last  she  said  in  a  half-choked  voice:  "I  only 
want  a  little  bit  of  you." 

And  he  answered  dully:  "In  love,  there  are  no 
little  bits — no  standing  still." 

Then,  suddenly,  he  felt  her  hand  in  his,  the  fin- 
gers lacing,  twining  restlessly  amongst  his  own;  and 
again  the  half-choked  voice  said: 

"But  you  will  let  me  see  you  sometimes!  You 
must!" 

Hardest  of  all  to  stand  against  was  this  pathetic, 
clinging,  frightened  child.  And,  not  knowing  very 
clearly  what  he  said,  he  murmured: 

"  Yes — yes ;  it'll  be  all  right.  Be  brave — you  must 
be  brave,  Nell.     It'll  all  come  right." 

But  she  only  answered: 

"No,  no!     I'm  not  brave.     I  shall  do  something." 

Her  face  looked  just  as  when  she  had  ridden  at 
that  gravel  pit.  Loving,  wild,  undisciplined,  with- 
out resource  of  any  kind — w^hat  might  she  not  do? 
Why  could  he  not  stir  without  bringing  disaster 
upon  one  or  other?  And  between  these  two,  suf- 
fering so  because  of  him,  he  felt  as  if  he  had  lost 
his  own  existence.  In  quest  of  happiness,  he  had 
come  to  that! 

Suddenly  she  said: 

"Oliver  asked  me  again  at  the  dance  on  Satur- 
day. He  said  you  had  told  him  to  be  patient.  Did 
you?" 

"Yes." 

"Why?" 


AUTUMN  307 

"I  was  sorry  for  him." 

She  let  his  hand  go. 

"Perhaps  you  would  like  me  to  marry  him." 

Very  clearly  he  saw  those  two  going  round  and 
round  over  the  shining  floor. 

"It  would  be  better,  Nell." 

She  made  a  little  sound — of  anger  or  dismay. 

"You  don't  really  want  me,  then?" 

That  was  his  chance.  But  with  her  arm  touch- 
ing his,  her  face  so  pale  and  desperate,  and  those 
maddening  eyes  turned  to  him,  he  could  not  tell  that 
lie,  and  answered: 

"Yes — I  want  you,  God  knows!" 

At  that  a  sigh  of  content  escaped  her,  as  if  she 
were  saying  to  herself:  'If  he  wants  me  he  will  not 
let  me  go.'  Strange  little  tribute  to  her  faith  in 
love  and  her  own  youth! 

They  had  come  somehow  to  Pall  Mall  by  now. 
And  scared  to  find  himself  so  deep  in  the  hunting- 
ground  of  the  Dromores,  Lennan  turned  hastily  to- 
wards St.  James's  Park,  that  they  might  cross  it  in 
the  dark,  round  to  Piccadilly.  To  be  thus  slinking 
out  of  the  world's  sight  with  the  daughter  of  his  old 
room-mate — of  all  men  in  the  world  the  last  per- 
haps that  he  should  do  this  to!  A  nice  treacherous 
business!  But  the  thing  men  called  honour — what 
was  it,  when  her  eyes  were  looking  at  him  and  her 
shoulder  touching  his? 

Since  he  had  spoken  those  words,  "Yes,  I  want 
you,"  she  had  been  silent — fearful  perhaps  to  let 
other  words  destroy  their  comfort.     But  near  the 


3o8  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

gate  by  Hyde  Park  Corner  she  put  her  hand  again 
into  his,  and  again  her  voice,  so  clear,  said: 

"I  don't  want  to  hurt  anybody,  but  you  will  let 
me  come  sometimes — you  will  let  me  see  you — you 
won't  leave  me  all  alone,  thinking  that  I'll  never  see 
you  again?" 

And  once  more,  without  knowing  what  he  an- 
swered, Lennan  murmured: 

''No,  no!  It'll  be  all  right,  dear — it'll  all  come 
right.     It  must — and  shall." 

Again  her  fingers  twined  amongst  his,  like  a  child's. 
She  seemed  to  have  a  wonderful  knowledge  of  the 
exact  thing  to  say  and  do  to  keep  him  helpless. 
And  she  went  on: 

"I  didn't  try  to  love  you — it  isn't  wrong  to  love 
— it  wouldn't  hurt  her.  I  only  want  a  little  of  your 
love." 

A  little — always  a  little!  But  he  was  solely  bent 
on  comforting  her  now.  To  think  of  her  going  home, 
and  sitting  lonely,  frightened,  and  unhappy,  all  the 
evening,  was  dreadful.  And  holding  her  fingers  tight, 
he  kept  on  murmuring  words  of  would-be  comfort. 

Then  he  saw  that  they  were  out  in  Piccadilly. 
How  far  dared  he  go  with  her  along  the  railings 
before  he  said  good-bye?  A  man  was  coming  to- 
wards them,  just  where  he  had  met  Dromore  that 
first  fatal  afternoon  nine  months  ago;  a  man  with 
a  slight  lurch  in  his  walk  and  a  tall,  shining  hat  a 
little  on  one  side.  But  thank  Heaven! — it  was  not 
Dromore — only  one  somewhat  like  him,  who  in  pass- 
ing stared  sphinx-like  at  Nell.     And  Lennan  said: 


AUTUMN  309 

"You  must  go  home  now,  child;  we  mustn't  be 
seen  together." 

For  a  moment  he  thought  she  was  going  to  break 
down,  refuse  to  leave  him.  Then  she  threw  up  her 
head,  and  for  a  second  stood  like  that,  quite  motion- 
less, looking  in  his  face.  Suddenly  stripping  off  her 
glove,  she  thrust  her  warm,  clinging  hand  into  his. 
Her  lips  smiled  faintly,  tears  stood  in  her  eyes;  then 
she  drew  her  hand  away  and  plunged  into  the  traffic. 
He  saw  her  turn  the  corner  of  her  street  and  disap- 
pear. And  with  the  warmth  of  that  passionate  little 
hand  still  stinging  his  palm,  he  almost  ran  towards 
Hyde  Park. 

Taking  no  heed  of  direction,  he  launched  himself 
into  its  dark  space,  deserted  in  this  cold,  homeless 
wind,  that  had  little  sound  and  no  scent,  travelling 
its  remorseless  road  under  the  grey-black  sky. 

The  dark  firmament  and  keen  cold  air  suited  one 
who  had  little  need  of  aids  to  emotion — one  who 
had,  indeed,  but  the  single  wish  to  get  rid,  if  he 
only  could,  of  the  terrible  sensation  in  his  head, 
that  bruised,  battered,  imprisoned  feeling  of  a  man 
who  paces  his  cell — never,  never  to  get  out  at  either 
end.  Without  thought  or  intention  he  drove  his 
legs  along;  not  running,  because  he  knew  that  he 
would  have  to  stop  the  sooner.  Alas!  what  more 
comic  spectacle  for  the  eyes  of  a  good  citizen  than 
this  married  man  of  middle  age,  striding  for  hours 
over  those  dry,  dark,  empty  pastures — hunted  by 
passion  and  by  pity,  so  that  he  knew  not  even 
whether  he  had  dined!     But  no  good  citizen  was 


3IO  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

abroad  of  an  autumn  night  in  a  bitter  easterly  wind. 
The  trees  were  the  sole  witnesses  of  tliis  grim  ex- 
ercise— the  trees,  resigning  to  the  cold  blast  their 
crinkled  leaves  that  fluttered  past  him,  just  a  little 
lighter  than  the  darkness.  Here  and  there  his  feet 
rustled  in  the  drifts,  waiting  their  turn  to  serve  the 
little  bonfires,  whose  scent  still  clung  in  the  air. 
A  desperate  walk,  in  this  heart  of  London — round 
and  round,  up  and  down,  hour  after  hour,  keeping 
always  in  the  dark;  not  a  star  in  the  sky,  not  a 
human  being  spoken  to  or  even  clearly  seen,  not  a 
bird  or  beast;  just  the  gleam  of  the  Hghts  far  away, 
and  the  hoarse  muttering  of  the  traffic!  A  walk  as 
lonely  as  the  voyage  of  the  human  soul  is  lonely 
from  birth  to  death  with  nothing  to  guide  it  but  the 
flickering  glow  from  its  own  frail  spirit  lighted  it 
knows  not  where.  .  .  . 

And,  so  tired  that  he  could  hardly  move  his  legs, 
but  free  at  last  of  that  awful  feehng  in  his  head — 
free  for  the  first  time  for  days  and  days — Lennan 
came  out  of  the  Park  at  the  gate  where  he  had  gone 
in,  and  walked  towards  his  home,  certain  that  to- 
night, one  way  or  the  other,  it  would  be  decided.  .  .  . 

XV 

This  then — this  long  trouble  of  body  and  of  spirit 
— was  what  he  remembered,  sitting  in  the  armchair 
beyond  his  bedroom  fire,  watching  the  glow,  and 
Sylvia  sleeping  there  exhausted,  while  the  dark 
plane-tree  leaves  tap-tapped  at  the  window  in  the 


AUTUMN  311 

autumn  wind;  watching,  with  the  uncanny  cer- 
tainty that  he  would  not  pass  the  Hmits  of  this 
night  \\dthout  having  made  at  last  a  decision  that 
would  not  alter.  For  even  conflict  wears  itself  out; 
even  indecision  has  this  measure  set  to  its  miserable 
powers  of  torture,  that  any  issue  in  the  end  is  better 
than  the  hell  of  indecision  itself.  Once  or  twice  in 
those  last  days  even  death  had  seemed  to  him  quite 
tolerable;  but  now  that  his  head  was  clear  and  he 
had  come  to  grips,  death  passed  out  of  his  mind 
Uke  the  shadow  that  it  was.  Nothing  so  simple, 
extravagant,  and  vain  could  serve  him.  Other  issues 
had  reahty;  death — none.  To  leave  SyKaa,  and 
take  this  young  love  away;  there  was  reality  in 
that,  but  it  had  always  faded  as  soon  as  it  shaped 
itself;  and  now  once  more  it  faded.  To  put  such  a 
pubhc  and  terrible  affront  on  a  tender  wife  whom 
he  loved,  do  her  to  death,  as  it  were,  before  the 
world's  eyes — and  then,  ever  remorseful,  grow  old 
while  the  girl  was  still  young?  He  could  not.  If 
Sylvia  had  not  loved  him,  yes;  or,  even  if  he  had 
not  loved  her;  or  if,  again,  though  loving  him  she 
had  stood  upon  her  rights — in  any  of  those  events  he 
might  have  done  it.  But  to  leave  her  whom  he  did 
love,  and  who  had  said  to  him  so  generously:  "I 
will  not  hamper  you — go  to  her" — would  be  a  black 
atrocity.  Every  memory,  from  their  boy-and-girl 
lovering  to  the  desperate  clinging  of  her  arms  these 
last  two  nights — memory  with  its  innumerable  ten- 
tacles, the  invincible  strength  of  its  countless  threads, 
bound  him  to  her  too  fast.     What  then?     Must  it 


312  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

come,  after  all,  to  giving  up  the  girl?  And  sitting 
there,  by  that  warm  fire,  he  shivered.  How  deso- 
late, sacrilegious,  wasteful  to  throw  love  away;  to 
turn  from  the  most  precious  of  all  gifts;  to  drop 
and  break  that  vase!  There  was  not  too  much  love 
in  the  world,  nor  too  much  warmth  and  beauty — 
not,  anyway,  for  those  whose  sands  were  running 
out,  whose  blood  would  soon  be  cold. 

Could  Sylvia  not  let  him  keep  both  her  love  and 
the  girl's?  Could  she  not  bear  that?  She  had  said 
she  could;  but  her  face,  her  eyes,  her  voice  gave  her 
the  lie,  so  that  every  time  he  heard  her  his  heart 
turned  sick  with  pity.  This,  then,  was  the  real 
issue.  Could  he  accept  from  her  such  a  sacrifice, 
exact  a  daily  misery,  see  her  droop  and  fade  be- 
neath it?  Could  he  bear  his  own  happiness  at  such 
a  cost?  Would  it  be  happiness  at  all?  He  got  up 
from  the  chair  and  crept  towards  her.  She  looked 
very  fragile  sleeping  there!  The  darkness  below 
her  closed  eyelids  showed  cruelly  on  that  too  fair 
skin;  and  in  her  flax-coloured  hair  he  saw  what  he 
had  never  noticed — a  few  strands  of  white.  Her 
softly  opened  hps,  almost  colourless,  quivered  with 
her  uneven  breathing;  and  now  and  again  a  Httle 
feverish  shiver  passed  up  as  from  her  heart.  All 
soft  and  fragile!  Not  much  fife,  not  much  strength; 
youth  and  beauty  slipping!  To  know  that  he  who 
should  be  her  champion  against  age  and  time  would 
day  by  day  be  placing  one  more  mark  upon  her  face, 
one  more  sorrow  in  her  heart!  That  he  should  do 
this — they  both  going  down  the  years  together! 


AUTUMN  313 

As  he  stood  there  holding  his  breath,  bending 
to  look  at  her,  that  slurring  swish  of  the  plane-tree 
branch,  flung  against  and  against  the  window  by 
the  autumn  wind,  seemed  filling  the  whole  world. 
Then  her  lips  moved  in  one  of  those  little,  soft  hur- 
rying whispers  that  unhappy  dreamers  utter,  the 
words  all  blurred  with  their  wistful  rushing. 

And  he  thought:  I,  who  believe  in  bravery  and 
kindness;  I,  who  hate  cruelty — if  I  do  this  cruel 
thing,  what  shall  I  have  to  live  for;  how  shall  I 
work;  how  bear  myself?  If  I  do  it,  I  am  lost — an 
outcast  from  my  own  faith — a  renegade  from  all 
that  I  beheve  in. 

And,  kneeling  there  close  to  that  face  so  sad  and 
lonely,  that  heart  so  beaten  even  in  its  sleep,  he 
knew  that  he  could  not  do  it — knew  it  with  sudden 
certainty,  and  a  curious  sense  of  peace.  Over! — the 
long  struggle — over  at  last!  Youth  with  youth, 
summer  to  summer,  falling  leaf  with  falling  leaf! 
And  behind  him  the  fire  flickered,  and  the  plane- 
tree  leaves  tap-tapped. 

He  rose,  and  crept  away  stealthily  downstairs  into 
the  drawing-room,  and  through  the  ^window  at  the 
far  end  out  into  the  courtyard,  where  he  had  sat 
that  day  by  the  hydrangea,  listening  to  the  piano- 
organ.  Very  dark  and  cold  and  eerie  it  was  there, 
and  he  hurried  across  to  his  studio.  There,  too,  it 
was  cold,  and  dark,  and  eerie,  with  its  ghostly  plaster 
presences,  stale  scent  of  cigarettes,  and  just  one 
glowing  ember  of  the  fire  he  had  left  when  he  rushed 
out  after  Nell — those  seven  hours  ago. 

He  went  first  to  the  bureau,  turned  up  its  lamp, 


314  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

and  taking  out  some  sheets  of  paper,  marked  on 
them  directions  for  his  various  works;  for  the  statu- 
ette of  Nell,  he  noted  that  it  should  be  taken  with 
his  compliments  to  Mr.  Dromore.  He  wrote  a  let- 
ter to  his  banker  directing  money  to  be  sent  to 
Rome,  and  to  his  solicitor  teUing  him  to  let  the 
house.  He  wTote  quickly.  If  Sylvia  woke,  and 
found  him  still  away,  what  might  she  not  think? 
He  took  a  last  sheet.  Did  it  matter  what  he  wrote, 
what  deliberate  lie,  if  it  helped  Nell  over  the  first 
shock? 

"Dear  Nell, 

"I  write  this  hastily  in  the  early  hours,  to  say 
that  we  are  called  out  to  Italy  to  my  only  sister, 
who  is  very  ill.  We  leave  by  the  first  morning  boat, 
and  may  be  away  some  time.  I  will  write  again. 
Don't  fret,  and  God  bless  you. 

"M.  L." 

He  could  not  see  very  well  as  he  wrote.  Poor, 
loving,  desperate  child!  Well,  she  had  youth  and 
strength,  and  would  soon  have — Oliver!  And  he 
took  yet  another  sheet. 

''Dear  Oliver, 

"My  wife  and  I  are  obliged  to  go  post-haste  to 
Italy.  I  watched  you  both  at  the  dance  the  other 
night.  Be  very  gentle  with  Nell;  and — good  luck 
to  you!  But  don't  say  again  that  I  told  you  to  be 
patient;  it  is  hardly  the  way  to  make  her  love  you. 

"M.  Lennan." 


AUTUMN  315 

That,  then,  was  all — yes,  all!  He  turned  out  the 
little  lamp,  and  groped  towards  the  hearth.  But 
one  thing  left.  To  say  good-bye!  To  her,  and 
Youth,  and  Passion! — to  the  only  salve  for  the 
aching  that  Spring  and  Beauty  bring — the  aching 
for  the  wild,  the  passionate,  the  new,  that  never 
quite  dies  in  a  man's  heart.  Ah!  well,  sooner  or 
later,  all  men  had  to  say  good-bye  to  that.  All 
men — all  men! 

He  crouched  down  before  the  hearth.  There  was 
no  warmth  in  that  fast-blackening  ember,  but  it  still 
glowed  like  a  dark-red  flower.  And  while  it  lived 
he  crouched  there,  as  though  it  were  that  to  which 
he  was  saying  good-bye.  And  on  the  door  he 
heard  the  girl's  ghostly  knocking.  And  beside  him 
— a  ghost  among  the  ghostly  presences — she  stood. 
Slowly  the  glow  blackened,  till  the  last  spark  had 
faded  out. 

Then  by  the  glimmer  of  the  night  he  found  his 
way  back,  softly  as  he  had  come,  to  his  bedroom. 

Sylvia  was  still  sleeping;  and,  to  watch  for  her 
to  wake,  he  sat  down  again  by  the  fire,  in  silence 
only  stirred  by  the  frail  tap-tapping  of  those  autumn 
leaves,  and  the  little  catch  in  her  breathing  now  and 
then.  It  was  less  troubled  than  when  he  had  bent 
over  her  before,  as  though  in  her  sleep  she  knew. 
He  must  not  miss  the  moment  of  her  waking,  must 
be  beside  her  before  she  came  to  full  consciousness, 
to  say:  "There,  there!  It's  all  over;  we  are  going 
away  at  once — at  once."  To  be  ready  to  offer  that 
quick  solace,  before  she  had  time  to  plunge  back 


3i6  THE  DARK  FLOWER 

into  her  sorrow,  was  an  island  in  this  black  sea  of 
night,  a  single  little  refuge  point  for  his  bereaved 
and  naked  being.  Something  to  do — something 
fixed,  real,  certain.  And  yet  another  long  hour  be- 
fore her  waking,  he  sat  forward  in  the  chair,  with 
that  wistful  eagerness,  his  eyes  fixed  on  her  face, 
staring  through  it  at  some  vision,  some  faint,  glim- 
mering Hght — far  out  there  beyond — as  a  traveller 
watches  a  star.  .  .  . 

THE   END 


ff\ClUTf„ 


^000  371397    1 


:   ' 


'Hfiiinifwinii 


